


My Own Private Blackpool

by LadyVisenya



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Gen, Good Regulus Black, Horcrux Hunting, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, Older Man/Younger Woman, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Regulus Black Lives, Slow Burn, goes au after harry's third year, regulus blacks slow recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:39:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 35
Words: 116,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24741685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyVisenya/pseuds/LadyVisenya
Summary: Regulus Black has been living a quiet existence since surviving the cave in the last place anyone would think to find him: a small muggle town by Blackpool. That is, until Jane, the village muggleborn witch, befriends him.
Relationships: Regulus Black & Kreacher, Regulus Black & Sirius Black, Regulus Black/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 501
Kudos: 474





	1. Part I: the town madman

I dig my bicycle out from the back, smashed in between large signs advertising happy hours and leftover wood from the latest home improvement diy. “Bye mum, dad!” 

“Where are you going,” Mum asks, “you just got home.” 

And it was nice to be back. As lovely as Hogwarts was, and as nice as it was to be able to do magic, home was home. I planned to make the most of it. Avoiding the crowded tourist beaches, and sticking to the local only secret spots. Though those were getting more and more scarce as the years went by. 

At least the beach was empty any time it rained. No one cared for a rainy beach. They were all here for sunshine and sunbathing. 

“Just going out to the shops,” I wave off. I was in no mood to deal with hungover students, the bread and butter of the shop. Our place was just at the edge of the tourist hostels and more affordable hotels. No where near the main boardwalk. “Drop by Trees and Tea.”

“She’s going to visit that loon no doubt,” dad calls out from the kitchen. 

“That’s not a nice thing to say,” I call back. “And he’s not crazy. Just sort of sad.” 

“Just be careful,” mum says, managing to steal a hug, “and be back before the late night shift.”

“Always am,” I tell her, hopping on my back and heading into the heart of town, the locals side of Blackpool. 

Few tourists bothered to venture this far out. And it was rather unfashionable, with none of the glitz and glamour of the streets right off the broadwalk. It had more of a small town feel just like Hogsmeade. Small shops whose owners I’d known for years. 

And a small tea shop right off the square. 

The book sharing box still painted bright yellow, little pink flowers around the trim, the same way I’d helped paint it years ago. No doubt the paint job had held up because of some underaged magic. 

The fact that I was a witch was obvious looking back. 

And there, exactly where I’d left him, “hello Mr. Black.” I greet, leaving my bike out of the way before taking a seat across from him. There’s no food on the table so he must have just gotten here. Clad in his usual summer attire, a well made, if heavily mended, black suit with a wrinkled white shirt and tie with frayed edges. As well as the black leather gloves he was never without. His hair, as dark as spilled ink, had grown down to his shoulders unevenly from the last time he’d bothered to cut his hair. Marring what could only be described as a handsome face, were light thin scars. They were only visible if you were within speaking distance of him. 

He raises his eyes off the paper lazily. A line forming between his brows as his silver eyes meet mine. “Miss Saldana?”

“It’s June,” I add helpfully. He tended to lose track of time. I could never be sure if it was a good day for him. “Just got back from boarding school.”

“Ah,” he nods slowly, going back to reading. 

Since I had started going to Hogwarts, I had grown bored when I was home during the summer. All my friends lived elsewhere. And my parents being muggles, I couldn’t just floo over whenever they got together. 

“Being prefect was a lot more boring than I thought it would be,” I admit. Muggle schools probably had prefects. “Especially since Percy takes it so seriously. It’s just something cool to add to my CV. You know?” Do wizards even have CVs?

Mr. Black didn’t say anything, but I could tell he was listening. He hadn’t turned the page. 

“At least he got a girlfriend a few months ago and now he’ll leave everyone alone. I think Penelope could do much better. He’s really annoying with how prissy he is,” which wasn’t nice of you to say, but it was true. He could never shut up about how even Professor Snape didn’t completely hate him. A rare thing for any student to achieve. It probably didn’t help that you’d fallen asleep during potions in your second year. 

“And Penelope is. . .”

“My-well we’re not best friends or anything but we sit next to each other in class and she’s always dead funny.”

Mrs. Holmes came over with a teapot, the cups already on the table, her hands covered in the cutest little old lady oven mitts. Steam escaped the pot. She smiles when she notices me, “Jane! Lovely to have you back with us. The usual?”

“Yes please. I’ll get you some new books for the box by the weekend,” I tell her. “Haven’t gone to the charity shops yet.”

“You don’t have to honey,” she insists, setting the pot down and a plate of tiny tea sandwiches. Cut into perfect rectangles. “Jonathan just donated a boxful of books when he cleaned out his things.”

“Are you sure,” I ask. I would still probably go. There were some food tie dye ideas from witches weekly I wanted to try out. 

“Of course Jane. Feel free to take anything you like.”

“Thank you Mrs. Holmes.” 

“Mr. Black,” she nods, before running along. There were a few tables full inside. She more than deserved the business. 

When Mr. Black doesn’t immediately reach for the steaming pot, I know he’s having a good day. I’d seen him grab the teapot with just his hands, nearly scalding himself. And drink boiling tea water even as he winced.

I pour us both a cuppa tea, “I’m going to the charity shops later. There’s this tie dye I read about that you can make using vegetables. I have big plans for my old school shirts. And anything else I find. Do you think tie dye is too 70s? Just in case you need anything.”

“I’m-I don’t need anything Miss Saldana,” Mr. Black says, putting the paper aside as he dumps a few cubes of sugar into his cup, hands shaking when he pours in the milk. “I certainly never wore tie dye.” His gloves are still on when he reaches for the sandwiches. 

I couldn’t imagine him in tie dye either. While his clothes had seen better days, it was obvious enough they were really nice. Rich wool coats in the winter, even if there were some loose threads. Fair isle jumpers that would’ve made a professor at Oxford jealous regardless of the frayed edges. Broken in brogues and leather loafers. 

“Well,” I add, reaching for the paper he’d set aside, and flipping to the word search, “ ‘s not like I have anything to do this summer if you change your mind.” 

Mrs. Holmes sets down a plate of toast and baked beans for me. I only pour one cube of sugar into my cup of tea. I was not big on sweets. 

I settle into to do the crossword, comfortably having breakfast with Mr. Black. He was always here on the days it wasn’t raining. 

** **

“Jane,” my mum yells, “clean up this mess before we open.” 

“Going,” I answer, hastily throwing on my waxed jacket over my newly made avocado pit purple and beet red tie dye shirt. There were quite a few old yogurt containers with shirts and tote bags marinating inside, this year's Christmas presents, with onion and avocado pits and whatever else witch’s weekly had come up with. While their advice section was rubbish. They often came up with great diys. 

There were only so many cloth napkins I could embroider before even I got bored. 

It wasn’t hard to clean. Just dump out the water. Throwaway the bits and bobs that made up the dye. Letting them sit overnight got rid of any temptation to take the shirts out too early. 

It was summer. But it was also England. 

Yesterday had been blistering hot, and no amount of ice cream had fixed the sweltering heat. And today, grey clouds, the color of Mr. Black’s eyes, had filled the sky, threatening rain. 

“Going out again,” dad asks. 

“Please don’t buy any more clothes,” my mum sighs, “I thought I’d never have to see tie dye after the hippies.”

“Weren’t you super into The Beatles and the whole peace love thing,” I ask, a smile on my lips as I tease her. 

“I was more of a Rolling Stones fan,” she replies, rolling her eyes. “Be back before it rains.”

“The dead were better than both,” dad adds. “And the shows were epic!” 

“You mean there was lots of weed.” My mum shakes her head with a laugh. 

I can already see them getting all sickly sweet and leave before I have to witness my parents kiss. 

Summer rain showers weren’t that bad. I could bike my way around town with ease. A little rain didn’t bother me when I had a waterproof jacket on. Thin enough for the summer. 

I stop by Mrs.Holmes for a pastry, a strawberry tart, before stopping by the charity shop yet again. The doorbell rings out as I enter. There’s a handful of other people inside as I browse through the racks. There isn’t anything new. 

The thing about small towns was there was nothing to do. 

The beach was fun. But then I had to deal with the mess of sand, unable to use a cleaning charm. 

I shouldn’t take living near the beach for granted. 

My hand goes over the stacks of books, before choosing the one with the most interesting cover. Sure, I shouldn’t judge a book by it’s cover, but it turned out to be bad, I’d only spent half a pound. 

Then I bike down to the beach. 

This north from the pier, it’s practically deserted compared to the masses that populate the beach for their summer holiday. It’s still not too bad compared to august, when everyone will be going on vacation. I can just pick a spot near the water, sitting down to see if the book I’d picked out was any good. 

Hot pink paisley print. A new edition of an old classic, Emma. I’d never read the book, but it was a classic for a reason. 

When I grow bored and hungry, I take my bike up to a craft shop, pick out some new yarn for a project I’d dreamed up back at school. Sunbathing by the black lake instead of studying. Before stopping by the deli. 

“Hi Peter, Roger,” I say, both men behind the counter, animatedly talking. Peter, already tanned from laying on the beach. Roger with hideous looking frosted tips.

“Jane.”

“What will it be? The usual?”

I laugh, “yes! Oh and an Egg Salad sandwich too”

“Hungry are we doll,” Peter jokes as Roger makes my order. “Been biking around a lot.”

“It’s a nice day. Think the clouds’ll hold,” I reply.

“It’s just a matter of time til it rains. Me plants need it.” He admits. “At this rate I’ll never make my own pesto.”

“Rain water is better,” I tell him, digging out my wallet from my bag. “Has lots of minerals for plants. What do you think of my shirt.”

“Tryna be a hippie,” Peter teases.

“Just having some fun.”

He rings me up. 

“See you,” I wave them both goodbye. 

I take the long way back home, that circles up a hill before going back down to my parents house. It was absolutely killer on my legs, but I wasn't ready to call it quits on the day yet. I should. 

The clouds had deepened and darkened. There was rain coming. It was awful. It was supposed to be summer. I was supposed to have left the rain in the north. 

I’ve huffed my way up the hill when the clouds let loose. A gentle downpour to offset the workout I've done. Poor tourists, still at the beach. I can spy all their colorful garb, a colorful blur on the beach. 

Maybe I wasn't going away on holiday like some of my friends, but I did live by the sea and that was better. I knew how to swim, a water baby. Even when the seasons turned, back before Hogwarts, we'd go down for a dip. 

I close my eyes, breathing hard. All my things are safe in my charmed bag, waterproof. It wasn't a problem that I was slowly getting soaked. I could always just take a shower when I got home. 

It takes a few minutes before I catch my breath well enough to continue riding my bike. 

Hogwarts has me all out of shape.

I ride on, down the lonely street. Most of these houses were out of the way, two story homes, of the victorian style, back when all the poshos from London came here for vacation. Back from the highpoint of Blackpool. 

Now they were mostly empty or owned by older couples. While the hill had a nice view, the real attractive homes were closer to the beaches. 

I've barely cruised down the street, letting the momentum propel me along, not pedaling, when I spot Mr. Black sitting on the curb, head in his hands, dark hair obscuring his face and trembling.

It brings me to a halt. While I think..I'm pretty sure Mr. Black likes me, I've never approached him outside Trees and Teas. He's a loner. A bit sad. And well, I'm a bit sad, seeing as I'm marooned in Blackpool until I go back to school. If there was any magical community in the area I was unaware of it. 

And my old school friends, the muggle ones, turned their nose up at me when I tried to hang out with them. 

It wouldn't be weird to go up to him now. He clearly needed someone. If it was Penelope or Leandra I'd go up to them. And sure most of my friends here are adults but they're still my friends.

I hop down from my bike. “Mr. Black,” I ask him gently, “are you all right?”

He certainly doesn't seem alright. 

He looks up, surprise in his sliver eyes when he meets my gaze. “Miss Saldana…” His voice is hoarse and I don't miss the tears in his eyes. 

Oh! I am not equipped to handle this at all. But he's my friend so I'll just have to do my best. “Do you want me to walk you to your house?” I have no clue where he lived but he was a local so I doubted it was far. 

He doesn't reply. Mr. Black continues to tremble while staring off into the distance. He was having a very bad day. PTSD my dad reckoned when he wasn't calling him a loon. “Mr. Black?”

He meets my gaze again. “Mmm…”

“I'll walk you home,” I tell him, reaching my hand out towards him. 

He looks at my hand, but doesn't take it. He does however stand up, brushing his damp hair back with a gloved hand. It still falls nicely against his head. Nothing at all like the rats nest that was my hair when I woke up in the morning.

“Is it the rain,” I ask, wincing once the words left my mouth. “I know when I was little I used to get scared of the howling wind. I’d end up in my parent’s bed. And if there was thunder! Lightning! I just wouldn’t sleep.”

The corner of his mouth curves up, but otherwise he remains quiet as usual. Except, his silence is not usually this thick and uncomfortable. It was obvious in the line of his shoulders, how agitated he was.

I press on, walking sandwiched beside Mr. Black and my bike. “And there used to be this tree next to my house before Mr. and Mrs. O’Brian bought the plot and had a house built that would tap against my window which only made it worse.” My rambling doesn’t seem to be working. He’s still quiet, hunched into himself, not very present at all. 

“Their kids are awful. They knock my plants over if I leave them too close to the fence. It’s clever how they kick at the fence. So I can only really use one side of the yard. Mums an angel, watering my plants while I’m away at school.” 

Mr. Black looks over as if I’m the weird one. “Why didn’t you let their parents know?”

“Oh I did,” I reply, smiling now that he seems more like himself. “I went over to hers and tried to explain the whole situation but she just said that boys would be boys.” 

He leads us to one of the stately Victorian summer homes. It is not the largest or grandest on the street, but it does sit on a corner, overlooking the cliffside. The grass is neatly trimmed, even if the color of the house is long sunbleached, giving the home the usual old home charm. 

It’s less a horror movie house, and more, house the local council wants to demolish for another mall or track housing units. 

“Are you sure you’ll be alright,” I ask him, looking him over. He looked a lot like a drowned cat. And just as miserable. This close to him, the scars, like little scratches, on his skin, were readily apparent. All over his finely formed features. 

Mr. Black nods, resigned. As if another answer doesn’t even occur to him. 

“You can have my sandwich,” I tell him, already digging it out of my bag. “Since you won’t be going down to Trees and Teas today.” I offer without thinking. “You never did say if it was the rain.”

Red creeps up his neck, as he glances in confusion at the sandwich in my hand. “Ah. . .thank you Miss Saldana.”

“It’s Jane. You can call me Jane. I’ve told you that at least a thousand times.” Miss Saldana made me feel like I was stuck in one of those old english books where I’d get consumption and die. “So is it the rain?”

Mr. Black nods, “thank you for. . .for walking me home. And the sandwich.”

He must be even lonelier than me. Mrs. Holmes had her grandkids and cats. Peter had Roger. I had my parents even if they rolled their eyes when they caught me trying out a new arts and crafts project. 

“No problem,” I grinned, happy to help. He did buy me tea often. It was the least I could do for him. “Mr. Black. I feel like that makes you sound so old. Only like, grandparents should be Mr. and Mrs. You know what I mean? You definitely look too young to be a Mr. anything.”

The red creeping around his neck, deepens. It's funny, but I have a feeling I’m being annoying again. Something my parents never told me straight out, but often had to remind me to leave people alone. “Sorry,” I add. 

“It’s quite alright. . .Jane,” he manages. 

“I know. My school friends. . .well from grade school, said I was annoying a lot. Leandra doesn’t think so though. I’ll talk her ears off. Then she’ll talk my ears off.” Mostly Leandra liked to go into microdetail about goblin culture. She loved the language. The fact that the owner was always the person who made the artifact. And was fast learning the language. Though she didn’t want to work with Gringotts. 

He smiles indulgently, before uttering, “you-my name is. . .Aaa. . .Archie.”

“You don’t look like an Archie,” I comment thoughtfully. He was quite gloomy. Always in black like a big bat. I wonder if he and Professor Snape would get on? Probably not. Snape didn’t seem the type to need or even want friends. Archie, despite his shy nature, seemed lonely. Like he would. . .like he just needed someone to reach out and be his friend. 

And I was already here. 

“An Archibald though,” I add, smiling. He was a bit posh. Probably an Archibald something something Black the third. “That I can see.”

Archie smiles for the first time all evening, now, safe and sound under the porch and sheltered from the rain. 

It had started pouring harder since we’d walked to his home. A full on summer storm. Poor sad tourists would probably end up wasting the day or two of their vacation. 

“And it was-is the rain.” He answers before slipping inside his front door, opening it only wide enough for him to step inside. 

My hair is completely soaked by the time I get home. 

  
  



	2. Part I: Strange Friends

Being the local chip shop came at a cost. It was raging busy on a friday night. And that was despite the rain. It had rained the past two days. 

At least I’d been able to send an owl back to Leandra, who had somehow gotten an internship with the goblins practicing their language. Then again, she lived in London, in the center of it all. And, thoughtfully, she asked how my plants were doing. 

For my fifteenth last year, she had gotten me a wonderful Shrivelfig plants, with the promise that I’d give her shrivelfig juice for free. 

“Ten chips, three portions of white fish, and two red fish,” I call out, sticking the paper on the board before marching out once more and taking the next order. Thank merlin that there was another waitress working along with me. 

I couldn’t have kept up by myself. I took the orders and she handed them out. 

“Two bags of chips and four white fish,” I yelled back once more. 

She was rather pretty, a headful of blonde hair, all teased up into a huge ponytail with a scrunchie. And she knew how to do her makeup. 

“Oh I can see the end,” she uttered watching the clock as she walked by. 

Despite me being the owner’s daughter, nine months at Hogwarts left me out of practice. 

“Six bags of chips. One white fish and five red,” I yelled back. 

“Rush ends by nine,” she called out. 

It was barely eight. 

“Well eight really,” Claire added. “You can go off as soon as its eight.” Because she wanted her work hours of course. 

“You don’t want to take a break before I go,” I ask her. Before I go upstairs. I had already tried to befriend her, but like Penelope, she was too wrapped up in sucking face with her boyfriend than making friends. I’d seen her own friends come buy fish and chips, rolling their eyes and teasing her about the boy I always saw pick her up. 

“I'm sure,” and she was off like a bullet to the tables, tracking down faces and shoving steaming hot bags of fish and chips. 

Ithad rained the past two days. I was sure that Archie was feeling out of it. 

I had gone out earlier, and marched through the rain for more yarn, for water colors because they were on sale and now I needed brushes. Hobbies to keep me occupied. Drawing was like painting so I’d figure it out on my own. “Three bags o chips and four red fish!”

Eight did not come fast enough. 

“Can I get a bag of chips and white fish,” I ask my mum as I take off my apron. The rain wouldn't let up until sunday according to the news. It wouldn’t be that bad by tomorrow, just light sprinkles, but if he really felt awful about the rain then I was going to go check up on him. 

“And where are ya off too,” my dad asks, sticking his head out the kitchen window where he was meaning the frier. Mum was much neater at cutting potatoes and fish up for frying. And still yelling at him not to burn any food. 

“Just gonna walk a bit. Get some air that isn’t oil.”

Claire snorts. 

“And collect some lavender,” I add. Now I had a proper excuse, and would have to remember to pick a bit of lavender on my way home. 

Maybe I could give Archie 

“Ew,” Claire squeals, “what if there's a bug or spider!”

“I just shake it off. . .” I tell her. I’ll give him my first poorly shaped blanket too. “I’m going to run up and get my jacket.”

“Be home before ten,” my mum adds, before going back to manning the fries. At least the rush was over. There were still a few people out and there would definitely be more later on, the drunken tourists who’d strayed from McDonalds. 

“Yeah yeah,” I rush down, shoving the blanket into my bag along with gardening scissors. The nice ones from Hogwarts. Using magical items did not count as underaged magic. Then grab the togo bag, “love you, see you in a bit.”

“No,” my dad yells, “it’s late.”

I can hear my mum hush him up before I’m out the door. 

The rain feels nice on my skin after the hot cramped little shop my parents run. It’s a nice night for a walk and Archie’s house is not far from my home. Just a little twenty minute stroll. Hardly a walk at all. 

It would be nice to see him again. 

I did miss his company at the teahouse when it decided to rain in the summer. While he wasn’t much of a talker, it was nice to have someone willing to listen to me as I scribbled in my sketchbook. 

Before I know it I’m outside his door. 

I only hesitate for a second, glazing around to see if there's those fancy doorbells, before knocking on the wood. 

Nothing. 

I knock again. Undeterred. He probably hadn’t heard me because of the rain. Or he might be one of those early sleepers. I could always leave the things on the porch, with a little note so he knew its wasn’t some weirdo. 

The deep blue curtains are drawn.

I knock one last time. 

The door cracks open, only a sliver of Archie visible through the crack. “Jane,” he utters bewildered, and looking a little pale. Even for him, being pale and dark haired to begin with.

“I was thinking you might want some dinner,” I explain, showing him the chips bag. “It's a bit greasy but like nothing's better than fish and chips on a friday night. Also there's a blanket I though you might like which isn't me attempting to offload you with my twenty knitting projects at all.” 

From the sliver of him I can see, I can't read much into his expression. Archie isn't easy to read to start with. A frown was his most obvious expression. While he might not be blank faced, as if not paying attention at all, and then ask how my sage plant was doing. 

The furrow of his brow lessens. “Thank you Jane. But you shouldn't have. It's late.”

“Not even ten yet.” I counter easily. Trying not to be nosy and sneak a peak behind him.

His lips part, but he thinks bette rod his words and stops himself, letting silence fall around us. 

“It's really no bother. The kitchen was bloody hot. And Claire never chats with me, only mum. But she is mad quick and good with faces.”

The door opens a little wider and I spy his uncovered hands for the first time. They are just as scared as his face. One scar running right over his knuckles. His arms are wrapped around his body, a thick coat pulled on. The draft from inside is just as chilly as the night. 

The house was probably built before central heating. 

I pull out the blanket, an atrocious cat vomit pink color because the yarn had been about to be thrown out. “Here.” 

“Thank you.” Archie repeats, only a quirk of his lips as the blanket unfolds. Instead of a nice rectangle, square, or even an unconventional circle, it's a blob. I'd laughed too. It was my first attempt and my worst. 

“Of course. I think everyone else I know is sick of getting blankets and mittens. I made socks too. Like a whole kit for christmas. Though I think you'd appreciate a pair of mittens. Like how some people have house slippers. You could have house mittens,” I ramble, already thinking of what bits of yarn I could use to make them. His fingers were long and thin. What I imagined pianists' hands to be like. 

Amusement flares to life in his eyes, almost sparkling with laughter though his lips didn't so much as twitch. It was a shame. 

I vowed to get a laugh out of him before the summer was over. 

“House mittens would be nice,” he finally says. 

“Would you wear them even if they were neon pink,” I ask teasingly. 

He arches a brow. “House mittens. By definition no one else would see them.”

“You've got a point there.”

He brushes back his hair, long enough to fall into his eyes every few seconds when it fell free from being tucked behind his ears. Some locks were longer than others. It occurred to me he probably cut his hair by himself. 

I could never.

“You in need of a haircut?”

“Of course you would notice Jane.”

I shrug, my cheeks heating up in embarrassment. “That's what friends do don't they? Notice things? I know Leandra would hate it if I didn't comment on her back to school hair cut. Reckon my roommate, Michelle, would be all miffed if I didn't compliment her if she was trying out a new make up look.”

The corner of his lips turn up. Practically a laugh from him. “Yes. I was actually going to attempt it tonight. But I think I shall hold on until I'm feeling steadier.” He holds out a hand, untucking it from his chest. There's a tremble even as he tries to hold it still. 

“I could help you tomorrow if you want? When there's lots of light. No promises that it be any good.”

“I'm not looking to impress anyone,” Archie utters. This time he lets himself smile bittersweetly. It changed his features for the better. He was still handsome despite the scars. And if he let himself smile, he'd easily make friends, instead of being an unapproachable bundle of black clothes. 

“So tomorrow,” I ask to double check that I wasn't inviting myself over. 

“If there's no rain.”

“Good night then Archie-Archibald.” I play with his name, trying to figure out which fit him best. 

“Until tomorrow Jane.”

There's a few stragglers when I get back to the shop. A little sway. Some teenagers my own age are getting a bag of chips. Claire's fixing her hair in the tiny mirror dad used to make sure no one left without paying. 

It's barely ten. 

“Is that all then,” Claire asks. Glancing over at a table where her brown haired and well build boyfriend sits. 

“Yes dear,” my mum nods, wiping sweat from her brow. “I'll see you tomorrow at Four then.”

Claire runs off without a glance over at me. 

“Ya need any help,” I ask my mum. 

“No no Jane,” she waves me off having shoved my dad up to the front, and taking command of the kitchen. “We're all good here. Find any lavender?”

I shake my head. “I'm going to turn in then.” 

“Goodnight mija,” dad calls out. 

  
  


The sun is not out the next day. It isn't a huge surprise. But at least the worst part of the summer rain has let up. 

I hop in the shower before finding a pair of clean jeans and a shirt that I haven't tried tie dying yet. 

I check my plants, seeing if there's any that look a bit overwatered to bring them under the porch so they'll escape the worst part of the rains. There's lots of pots that I've tried planting. The strawberries have yet to take. But the lavender and sage I'd planted last year is doing nicely. Probably don't need to move anything yet. 

There's an aloe vera inside my room. Our tiny cottage, since the bottom floor was my parents chip place, could feel cramped. 

I take my bike and pull on a sweater I'd knitted during the school year. There was magical yarn at Hogsmeade, color changing and ombres that would increase and decrease as time passed. But living in the muggle world, I hadn't bought any of those. But a navy blue that was littered with silver stars. 

I grab some biscuits and fruit, meaning to go draw a little in a park before heading to Archie's. 

There's fog in the streets, rolling in from the sea. It's not hard to find an empty bench. Watch people walk to their jobs or wait at the bus to go further into the center of the city. I sketch out the bodies moving across the very english landscape. From the Hogwarts Express I learned how many little towns outside city centers like my own existed. 

I eat my apple and bread and finally, when most people are in at work, I take my bike up to Archie's house. 

There. I'd given him space. The last thing I wanted to do was lose one of the few friends I had around here. And he was the type that needed space like my dorm mate Michelle. Michelle had charmed a pillow so that whenever it floated it was quiet time in our dorm or else the pillow would whack the offending person.

Archie Black is already sitting on his porch, outside under the eaves, in a grey sweater with frayed strands around the collar and sleeves and darker trousers. 

I leave my bike against the lawn, calling out, “hello Archie. ‘fink the rains going to let up by this evening.”

“Hello Jane,” he greets, but makes no movement to leave his sanctuary from the rain. Unlike last night, the gloves are back. He had a book in his lap but I dunno what it's about. The cover is simply an oxblood red leather. 

He sets the book aside. 

“So,” I grin, feeling a tiny bit awkward. What if I did this so badly that he never wanted to speak to me again. 

That was ridiculous. Hair grew back. 

Why had I even offered?

My mouth getting away from my brain as usual. 

“If you do not feel comfortable it's fine Jane,” Archie says, speaking up. “There's no need-,” There's a lit to his tone, silver eyes twinkling. He's teasing me?

Well, I can't back out now. “Nope. I'm good.” I take a seat next to him, glancing down at the scissors by his leg. “Are you,” I ask, frowning. He did have PTSD. I was pretty sure. Like 98 percent sure.

Would he feel comfortable with me cutting his hair? 

Or maybe he really was just an aquaphobe in which case he should move somewhere more dry with much less rain than England. 

“How do you shower,” I ask without thinking, “if you have aquaphobia?” 

Red rising in his cheeks, “Uh,” he stutters. 

“Sorry,” I add, feeling myself flush. “i'll shut up now. You don't have to answer that.” I pick up the scissors and comb. Studying his hair. It really was long, brushing past his shoulders in odd lengths. He clearly hadn't done a good job cutting it in the past. 

“It's fine Jane,” he claims, but it sounds strangled. 

I brush my hands through his soft hair, trying to figure out what and where I'm supposed to cut. I really don't want to mess it up. But since I doubt I'll become a hair stylist in the next ten second, I just do what I remember from the last time I got a haircut. I brush his hair out with the comb, before bringing the scissors up to the edge and snip the ends. “How long do you want it at?”

“By my ears,” Archie tells me, holding incredibly still. It doesn’t even look forced, like he’s trying, and with impeccable posture. My mum was always yelling at me about standing up straight and not slumping over. 

“No promises it’ll look any good,” I tell him, his dark hair falling as I cut my way through it. “But you’ll look less like someone out of those BBC specials. I hated reading Charles Dickens in school. At my boarding school they don’t make us read that.” Thank merlin I didn’t have to read a tale of two cities. 

“What do you read at your school?”

Shit. bloody hell, what do muggles read at school? I try to think of answers that aren’t oh you know potions year five. Or ‘flesh eating trees of the world.’ 

“Oh well we read Darwin’s book. On the origins of species. . .honestly I usually don’t do the reading,” I explain. Which wasn’t a complete lie. I couldn’t do the readings for an english class I wasn’t taking. “I prefer history. I dunno, schools okay but I don’t love it.” Learning magic was a lot more work than it seemed. And drawing was much more fun. “I usually end up doodling in my notes.”

“That’s terrible. Jane,” he chastises careful not to move too much, “you have to take your studies seriously.”

“I just can’t pay attention in class for that long. My marks were alright last year though.” Enough owls to take my Newts at least. Charms. History. Herbology. And Potions. 

My hand brushes against the top of his ear as I grab another comb full of hair. Archie stiffens. 

“Sorry,” I utter. Stopping. 

“It’s alright Jane,” he manages carefully. “I’m just. . .just a little anxious. You can continue.”

Gently, I take hold of the lock of hair that falls over his ear, “so do you also wear the gloves because of the rain or do you just wear gloves as a fashion statement. Like Karl Lagerfeld,”

“Karl who?”

“He’s a fashion designer. I read the magazines while my mum goes grocery shopping.”

Archie looks out over the street, at the people having a fun day at the beach despite the rain that continues to fall, however slightly. “I have a thing about-I don’t like being touched.”

“Sorry,” I say. Looking his hair over, seeing where it needs evening out. 

“No. No. Jane. It’s not you,” he tries quietly, “It’s-It’s me. It sort of feels like. . .it makes me feel nauseous.” 

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” I tell him, evening out the left and the right side so that it doesn’t look horrendous. I’m not half bad at cutting hair. If wizards have hair salons maybe I could get a job there after Hogwarts. The meetings about our future career paths hadn’t really helped me. 

“Not your fault.”

“I just keep bringing up super depressing things for you don’t I?” I take a step back, looking down at him. He looks better with neater hair. Without thinking, I raise my hand and brush it out of his face. “Did you at least like the chips and fish?”

“It was nice. If greasy.”

I laugh. “My mum says that all the time. She never lets me have chips and they run a chip shop. I think it’s hilarious. And ironic. Or maybe just ironic?”

Archie carefully brushes the fallen hair off his grey sweater, standing up. Because his presence isn’t imposing, I forget how tall he is. “Thank you Jane.”

“No problem,” I beam at him. “I don’t actually have much to do in the summer. So schoolwork. Mostly readings. My school friends live in London. Well Leandra does. Her parents work at a bank. Mum’s a lawyer. Dad’s in finance. Then Michelle, well Michelle lives in Scotland. Glasgow. We always sing abba at her. . .you know the song  _ I was sick and tired of everything when I called you last night from glasgow.  _ Did you ever see Abba play live?”

He chuckles, taking a seat once he’s gotten the lion’s share of stray hairs off his clothes, “no. They were a bit before my time. My-my brother was the one who loved going to concerts. But we had a falling out ages ago.”

“That’s awful. I’d love a sibling. I wouldn’t be so bored in the summer. Though you and Mrs. Holmes and Roger and Peter help lots. I guess. . .well the first summer after boarding school,” I ramble, taking a seat next to him and taking out my notebook. The view from here was so lovely. “It was easy to fall into playing with my friends from here. But I dunno after we turned thirteen and you know, puberty, they-things were just weird. And they sort of gave me dirty looks. So I just,” I shrug. Owling leandra got me through the summer. And Mrs. Holmes often sent me home with free treats. Mostly day old bread. “It’s okay if I sit here and draw right?”

Archie smiles softly. “You can draw for as long as you want.” He looks over my shoulder. “You are,” his eyes study the beginnings of a landscape on my page, “actually good.”

“Why do you sound so surprised,” I tease, not bothering to look up, too busy getting the line of the shore just right. 

“Carefully.”

“What?” I glance up at Archie. He’s opened his book back up. The sun has started to peek through the clouds. 

“I shower carefully. And slowly. And it’s often the only thing I manage to do for the day.”

“Oh.” I frown. “You didn’t have to answer me.” 

“I know.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cant wait to write sirius and regulus meeting up for the first time in years and regulus knowing more about muggles than sirius


	3. part I: of mittens and charms

“If I have to see Weasley and Penelope swapping spit one more time,” Michelle complains as I knit in the common room. It felt as though it was the safest place in all of hogwarts. All the petrified students had been in the halls hadn't they? “I should be the one with the boyfriend!”

“Didn’t you just go on a date with-,” I try. 

“Ugh! That twat. Jane I better not be getting more knitted sweaters. Gonna have me looking like somebody's granny.” 

“I like looking like a granny,” Leandra offers, from behind her huge tome,  _ Goblins: Tribes and Tongues.  _ “Also love the charm you used on my sweater. Still hasn’t worn off.”

“Not another knit,” Michelle warns. 

“It’s not for you,” I tell her, finishing the mittens. Now I’d have to wrap them. I hope I guessed the size right. The mittens I’d given Leandra were too wide and short. And just in time to take the train back home. 

Hopefully Archie liked them. 

“What’d you get me?”

I roll my eyes, “Not telling you. It’s a surprise.”

“Oh to hell with secrets,” Michelle complains. "Didn't you hear? The chamber of secrets is open."

I roll my eyes. That was the last thing I wanted to be thinking of right before christmas break.

“Should’ve been jewish,” Leandra jokes, sidestepping the depressing subject entirely, “I got my present an entire week early. And there were eight of them.”

“Only to make you feel less shit about not going home for Hanukkah.” 

“Oi,” Leandra sends a hex flying. 

** ****

It should be warmer this far south, but blackpool is by the sea. The breeze from the ocean means winters are just as cold as further up north in Scotland. Well, not as cold, it wasn’t snowing here. I take my bike up to Archie’s house on the twenty-fourth. 

I had risked a warming charm even though he was a muggle. I was pretty sure this wasn’t breaking the statue of secrecy. And no one was going to get hurt from this little spell. 

It’s only six in the afternoon, but the streetlights are on. I have a thick wool sweater under my jacket. I wish I could wear my robes. They were much warmer. This year, during these dreary months, I’d made everyone something tie dyed. Except Archie but only because I couldn’t imagine him in something tie dyed. It just didn’t suit him

I end up not having to knock on the door, but only because he’s already heading out, clad in a dark wool coat, with a few small moth holes. He’s styled his hair neatly. The black shoes shine with polish. He’s not just going out, but going Out. 

“Jane,” he greets in surprise, halting when he’s standing in front of me. “Hello. Wasn’t expecting to see you.” 

“I have a present for you,” I explain, holding up the parcel, “Merry Christmas!” 

“Merry Christmas to you as well,” he takes the present from my outstretched hand.

“Where are you off to,” I ask, “family?”

He shakes his head, falling into step alongside me back down the hill. “Mrs. Holmes. I usually help her get ready for her christmas morning potluck.”

“She has a potluck!” I try to imagine Archie, solemn in black, helping Mrs. Holmes cook. 

“Yes. Her daughter goes down to Liverpool with her husband and children for christmas. She asks me to help.” He purses his lips in though, looking up at the stars. “Well. She asked one year and I’ve just not stopped.”

I giggle. “She shanghai’d you into cooking. I can’t imagine you in a kitchen. Does she make you wear an apron? Something really colorful?”

“Yes, actually. Wouldn’t want to stain my clothes.”

Laughing, I turn to go down my street. “Well, merry christmas Archie. Hope you love my present. And if you hate it, lie to me.”

He frowns. “I didn’t get you anything.”

“It’s okay,” I assure him. “I liked getting people gifts. And unloading my latest hobby on them. From knitting to embroidery and tie dye. . .there was this year I made soap. I made a mess in my house. My mum and dad were raging the whole time.”

Archie smiles at me, his eyes sparkling under the dim light. It transforms his face. Takes years off his often too serious features. He really isn’t that old. Not like Mrs. Homes. Not even like my mum and dad who’d gone grey ages ago. There’s a few expression lines around his eyes and lips, but. . .he shouldn’t be all alone up there. He’s too young to be that lonely. And sad. 

“I’ll have to make it up on your birthday.”

I wince. “My birthday’s in November. I’m sixteen now.”

He sighs, but his lips are still curved up. “Then I’ll have to make it up to you next November.”

“I’m getting into watercolors and painting,” I offer helpfully.

“Good evening Jane.”

“Archie.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter. the length felt right.


	4. Part I: on the verge of adulthood

I struggle with the hammer, hanging up the many paintings of the Hogwarts landscape. My parent’s had shot down the idea that I could pain my own walls. “It’s cheaper than canvas,” I called out to my mum. 

“Use paper,” she rolls her eyes, preparing fries for when they open. 

“I think I’m going to see if anyones throwing out some wood or paintings,” I muse. 

My dad cuts in, “have you figured out what to do after school? Do the wizards have lawyers or doctors?” 

“They have healers,” I tell him. “Not sure about lawyers. And I don’t want to be a healer. Or a lawyer. I didn’t get an Owl in transfiguration so I can’t be a healer anyway.”

“Then what exactly are you going to do,” my mum asks.

“How are you going to live,” my dad asks. 

“I’m going out for a walk,” I tell them, running out the door. This was exactly why I didn’t tell them about everything that went on at Hogwarts. There was no way they would find out about the petrified students. Absolutely no way. 

I decide to go get a sandwich from the local, and my favorite, deli in Blackpool. “Hi Peter, Roger.”

“Ello Jane,” Peter calls out. 

Roger waves with a hand, stocking up the drinks. “Back from boarding school?”

“Yes,” I tell them. Looking about which snacks to get. “And my parents are on my case. They want me to be a doctor, or a lawyer but I dunno. I don’t think I’m smart enough to be a doctor. And studying law. . .” Maybe I could grow plants for potions ingredients. Live with my parents while that got off the ground. I should start buying the daily prophet and looking at the job ads. Maybe I could draw or something. . .no. Wizarding artists were probably just as starving as regular artists. 

“Oh dear. . .” Roger says, ringing me up. “I remember when I got out of school. Went to uni for about a year before I met this one and dropped out.” 

“Oi! I didn’t tell you to drop out you dick,” Peter protests. “I only said I was going to open a deli. Drop out. Blame me for being a bloody idiot.”

“Well uni’s hard. And expensive. I think we did alright with the shop though,” Roger adds. 

“I think my parents would cry if I went to uni for art.” Did the wizarding world even have unis? I was pretty sure they didn’t

Roger shakes his head, “don’t go to uni for art. Waste of money. Just go to london. Make friends with the poshos and make them buy your shit.”

“See you boys around.” I call out. 

“Stay outta trouble Jane,” Peter says, “there’s a proper criminal running around. It’s been all over the papers and telly.”

“I haven’t watched the telly,” I admit. Besides, what was a muggle going to do to me. The ministry would understand underaged magic in a life threatening situation. 

“Better watch the news once in a while Jane,” Peter tsks. “Just take a gap year. Won’t be like those posh kids off to Paris. . you’ll probably have to get a proper job but maybe time’ll help you figure out what you want to do.” 

“Thanks Peter.” 

I take my bike down the road. Happy to bask in the sunshine. I take the road by the nice houses, where all the places were copies of each other, down to the shiny new cars and fresh grass in place of the native english vegetation I found when I made my way out to the reserves. Where companies had yet to develop into megamalls. 

No ones throwing any wood or things I could use as a canvas. I bike over to the cottages. The older part of town where I know the people were around and kicking since the war. 

Claires sitting on the curb with her boyfriend. 

“Hello Claire,” I call out. “ ‘ow have you been?” 

Claire studies her freshly painted nails before calling out, “back from school i take it.”

“Yeah. Looking for canvas. I’ve got a couple ideas I want to paint.”

She rolls her eyes. “What are you gonna do with a thousand paintings Jane?”

I shrug. “I dunno, but I like painting. See you at work then?”

“Unfortunately. I can never get the smell of oil out of me hair.”

“I’ve got a scent for it,” I tell her. A little magic I’d cooked up in my cauldron a few years ago. This was probably how witches and wizards got busted for magic in the middle ages. “Hey, what do you want to go to uni for or are you in uni?”

“Parents on your arse for uni,” she asks, tilting her head. 

“Yeah. I’m not much of a student though. Don’t want to be broke either but running a chip shop isn’t exactly my dream,” I tell her. 

“I’m saving up to buy a couple places,” she admits. “Rent some out. And live on that. Maybe a little townhouse. Like those flats in the city.” 

I nod. “Dunno if I want that either.”

Claire shrugs. “Well I'm off.” She intertwines her hand with her boyfriends and makes her way down the street. 

Having worked up an appetite, I go down to Trees and Teas, having missed Mrs. Holmes finger sandwiches. For some reason, sandwiches are always better when cut into small shapes. “Hello Mrs. Holmes,” I wave to her, before locking my bike up. “How have you been? Can I get the usual?”

“Of course Jane. Take any seat you like.” 

I try not to feel disappointed that Archie isn’t here. 

I take a seat on the porch. Looking over the plants. Mrs. Holmes clearly has a green thumb too. Growing plants for potions would be kinda nice actually. I have no idea how to go about it though. Okay, I was buying the daily prophet this year. 

I take out my new sketchbook. It was an old defense notebook. But I’d made sure to tear out all my notes before using it. Didn’t want muggles to accidentally see any of my notes. Leandra had invited me to her place in London but I didn’t want it to be a whole thing with my parents. They for sure wouldn’t give me the money to go down to London on a train. But a bus wasn’t that expensive. And I technically did work for them. 

“May I sit here,” Archie asks, taking a seat even as he waits for my response. He’s wearing a patched navy sweater, the collar of his white shirt peeking out, and dark jeans. 

“Hello Archie,” I smile, moving my things off the chair and setting the on the ground. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been fine Jane. Back from school?”

“Yes,” I sigh, focusing on drawing the table first. Just a little quick warm up. “Thinking about what to do once I graduate. What did you do after school? Or study at uni?” He did have a nice house. But he was also obviously posh. It was probably something boring like finance. Whatever that is. Even Leandra wasn’t sure. 

Then again, his clothes might have once been nice, but they were also old. So he couldn’t be loaded now. 

His face loses some of its color, taking a sickly green sheen. “Um. . .I-well after school.” He bites his lip, looking down at his gloved hands. “I didn’t do much actually. Just got into some. . .dark and dumb things. Was lucky to fall back on family money to be honest. Did not go to university though so I can’t help you there.”

I frown, “is it. . .does it have to do-”

Mrs. Holmes interrupts us, “got your usual pot of tea Jane. Archibald. Also this new recipe I’m trying out. Got new neighbors from Pakistan when William’s kids sold his house. God bless his soul. The woman. . .Rah. . Rahmeeyah? Oh dear I think I’ve forgotten how to say it again. Would you mind trying it out?”

“Of course Mrs. Holmes,” I tell her smiling, “never one to turn down food. Especially not yours.” The hogwarts house elves wish they could cook as well as her. 

“I wouldn’t mind at all Edith.”

When she's done putting out food and teapot down I look at Archie again. I don’t actually want to upset him. Even though I know I’m often-well I often say things without thinking. Or nosy as one of the mean slytherin girls hissed under her breath during one potions class. 

Instead, I decide to get something from this year off my chest. A bloody basilisk had just been hanging around Hogwarts for the last few centuries. Kids had gotten petrified. “Well. I was going to try and focus on post school goals for myself. Talk to my h-plant class professor. Botany! See I’m a bloody idiot. I dunno how to break the news to my mum that’ll never get into uni to be a doctor. But then. . .there was this animal that got loose on our. . .campus. Kids got hurt. Not badly or anything,” I rush to add, confused as to where I was going with this at Archie’s increasingly horrified face. “Just. . .ugh I dunno. I guess I wasn’t as worried about what to do after school. I’m leaning towards plants. I’m good with those and I doubt anyone’ll pay me to draw for a living.”

Archie takes a long sip from his teacup. “Well they should. You draw very well.” 

I feel my cheeks heat up. “Thanks. I’ve been painting loads. Went looking through people's garbage this morning. To see if they were throwing out old canvases or wood. I know artists have painted on cardboard too!”

“Well, you can draw on this,” he slides a slim notebook out of his pocket. It's about the size of my hand. With thick creamy pages. “For christmas. Belatedly.”

I grin. “Thank you. Mum’ll be grateful I’m not really going to turn into a racoon now. Do you need another haircut,” I ask. Taking in the mismatched length. He hadn’t let it get as long as last time: only down to his chin. 

“Yes actually. If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” I reassure Archie, going back to my doodle. This time I wanted to do the whole street, not just the layout of the table. 

“Really. You can say no Jane.”

“I don’t want to say no,” I reply, not looking up from my sketch. I rush to add, “you never know, I might end up opening a hair salon, just to not make it weird.” He couldn’t have been older than. . .I would say mid thirties, I wasn’t sure. Maybe 36. Yes, that was a nice round number. No older than thirty six. 

I refused to make this weird. 

I could have adult friends. 

And when I graduated I’d move down to london with leandra and get a proper witch job, whatever that was. 

“Alright then,” he said, opening up today's paper. “Just come during the day. There’s an escaped convict at large.” 

I wrinkle my nose, pouting and hoping this wouldn’t take all the fun away from summer. My mum was bound to keep me home if she caught wind of this. I also wanted to go get some books at the thrift store. Some fiction instead of all the different accounts I’d had to look up in the library for history of Magic. I was so jealous of witches that learned wandless magic from the start. “You’re the second person to tell me that today.”

His silver eyes meet my own, “Jane. . .you-if you don’t read the news how will you know about the dangers in the world at large.”

“It’s blackpool. Nothing ever happens in Blackpool. Apart from tourists drowning.”

He turns his attention back to his paper, and I decide to sketch him. The line of his brows, deeply concentrated. The subtle haughty expression to his features, sharp cheekbones and well formed mouth. 

Mrs. Holmes samosas need a bit of work. 

  
  



	5. Part I: but who can look at the sea and not inherit its loneliness

I started drawing in the notebook Archie had given me almost immediately. The paper was just better for it. 

So far I had managed to sketch all the regular customers. Claire in various stages of apathy and hating her job. My mum showing all the stages of grief when I told her the wizarding world doesn't have universities. My dad's face when my mum told him the news. 

And my neighborhood friends. Peter had posed. Roger had scowled. Mrs Holmes had straightened her apron. 

And Archie...had not said no. 

It was a slim notebook. Yet no matter how many sketches and drawing and even watercolor paintings I'd done. Maybe I could draw in book illustrations. Draw for herbology books. . .I had no clue, but someone had to be out there drawing in the magical books and the magical paintings. Surely I could find a way to make it work. 

An owl screeches. Leandra!

“Jane-”

“I've got it,” I yell, running to open the letter. Finally a response. 

_ Dear Jane,  _

_ My parents told me to tell you not to come. I KNOW! But they're taking this very seriously. Sirius Black has escaped. You know how they get the prophet “wanting to understand” the wizarding world. I've attached a copy of that editions prophet. Next: I got the internship by asking. Not via owl. I went to the goblins and asked nicely. They are different but not at all like wizards say they are. I know that doesn't helpYou but maybe send a letter to the potions shop and get names. Or owl Sprout. I'll even lend you Frodo. You should get an owl even though we'll soon live together and you can always borrow mine! Miss you. Hate this black lad for ruining our summer plans. Hopefully the aurors get him before long.  _

_ xoxo, Leandra _

I grin. And write a quick reply. 

_ Dear Leandra,  _

_ Will borrow Frodo then. I'll send you a letter when I have some letters to send. Or send them too you. Poor Frodo will get a workout. Wish I was seeing you this summer but soon we will be proper adult roommates and you'll be sick of me. Have heard of the escaped convict. Did not know his name. Must get the prophet so am sending you coin for a subscription. You really are the best.  _

_ Stranded, Jane _

Then toss the paper on my bed to read later.

I was heading to Archie's place.

“Going out,” I tell my mum and dad.

“where are you running off to now,” my dad asks.

“A-Mr. Black’s. He's got this amazing view from his house and he lets me draw from the yard.”

“The loon,” he clarifies.

“That isn't a nice word to call someone,” I retort, “but yes. He's harmless. Mrs. Holmes likes him. And she's great. She's got Pakastani neighbors now and is trying out some of their recipes. She made little mini spiced chicken sandwiches the other day. Some kind of curry.”

Mum pokes her head out of the kitchen, “you've been to his house before.”

“Well not in it,” I answer. “I walked him home last summer. I think he was having some sort of episode and didn't want to leave him in the street. Besides I've been to Roger and Peters. They're the ones who gave me the old paintings I've used. Think the ocean scenes turned out pretty good don't you?”

My dad's eyebrows raise high into his forehead, “the gay deli lads?”

I nod. “Yes they were making spaghetti. But they sent me off before it got dark because of the escaped convict.”

Mum nods, “Good. Charlie, our delivery boy, was telling me about it. Killed a bunch of people with a gun or something about ten years ago. Dark stuff. Best be staying inside after dark till he's caught.”

I roll my eyes, “okay but mark my words he'll be somewhere much more interesting than Blackpool. Somewhere he can hide. Everyone here knows everyone.”

“Not down by the resorts,” my dad points out. “Be careful with that Black fellow. Not right in the head. Probably served in Lebanon. Soldiers never come back right. Seen too many things.”

Mum hugs dad, “she'll be fine dear. Just. . .why don't you make friends with Claire. She's a lovely girl.”

“She hates me,” I point out. Lebanon. I can't remember that. Musta been before me. 

“She doesn't. And she's a great worker.”

“Never said she wasn't a good worker,” I counter, “but still. She thinks i'm odd and doesn't like me.” Which was fine with me. 

“Be back before dark,” dad adds.

“Okay. Now I'm leaving. Bye.”

Finally. I walk up the street. I thought they were never going to let me leave. Sirius Black. I'd really have to read the Prophet. If both the magical and muggle communities were looking for him, odds were that he was a wizard. And the strange name also gave it away. 

He was probably some old you-know-who supported. And he could piss right off with that muggle-mudblood nonsense. 

Since it's nice and sunny out today, Archie is sitting on the edge of his porch. A book in hand. He isn't wearing a sweater for once, just a blue and white striped shirt, untucked over grey trousers. Scissors and comb by his side. Hands ungloved.

“Don't tell me you didn't cut your hair while I was gone,” I tease taking a seat next to him on the balls of my feet. Otherwise I couldn't reach his head easily.

Red creeps up his neck. “I have been making an effort to be more groomed.”

“Why,” I ask, combing his hair out, my eyes flickering to his scared hands. I wonder if maybe he had done it to himself. I couldn't think of any muggle thing that would end in these light scars like scratches. “Got yourself a girl?”

“No-no. Nothing like that. It's soft of, well, stupid,” he answers. “Every year I try to. . .I try to get better. Little things. I've failed epically at keeping myself in order. But I feel it's time to let go of the gloves.”

“I think you look fine with or without long hair,” I tell Archie. “How has a gloveless life been.”

He frowns deeply. “It makes my skin want to crawl. I'm hyper aware of any chance at. . .any chance I might accidentally touch someone.”

“Well maybe it isn't worth it.”

“No, no. I mustn't bow out now. I used to be unable to leave the house when it rained. Had to take pep-pills to make it out the door.” It's more than Archie's said about his condition in the short time I've befriended him. 

I cut the ends of his hair before attempting to really style it. Style it into what is the better question. I think of the british bands currently on the radio and magazines. Their mop hair much like the sixties bands. Everything comes back again. “Thank you for the sketchbook. I swear I should have filled it by now. With how many sketches I've done.”

The corners of his mouth turn up in a barely there smile. An Archie smile. 

I'm done a few final snips before moving back to look at my handiwork. He looks handsome. There's no other way to describe him. The scars as Archie as the color of his eyes. 

“Think I did a fine job,” I remark.

“Thank you Jane.”

“It's no problem,” I tell him. Archie probably thinks I'm having some fun filled teenage life filled with parties and drinking and boys when all I have are some drawings and befriending the adults. “Even Michelle would admit I did a good job. And she is fussy. Went on a date with a different boy every Hog-every weekend trip we had out to the local town. Must’ve gone through all the boys in our year. Dunno what she'll do next year.” I sigh. “I got asked out too. But.” I shrug my shoulders. “It was bloody awkwards and it felt a bit stupid. But I guess he thought it went alright because he asked me out again and I didn't want to be rude so I said yes. And we went out and then he tried to kiss me and it was gross. I don't see what all the fuss is about or why Michelle's going around trying to snog boys so much.”

Archie looks like he's trying very hard not to laugh. His shoulders silently shaking with a smile on his lips. “It's different with the right person.”

“So there is a girl!”

This time, he does smile. “No. No girl. There was one or two but that's been. . .that's in the past.”

“Well,” I tell him, laying down on his porch, watching as he flicks the stray stands of hair off his shirt. “Join the club. Michelle has a crush every other week. And Leandra has well, one major crush but she won't spill so it's gotta be someone embarrassing. My money’s on Oliver Wood. And meanwhile I don't have any. Leandra doesn't believe me of course but we're not all keeping things secret like her. There's a few boys my year that are okay looking but no one I care for.”

Archie is still trying not to laugh. “Well I'm glad your school year wasn't all an animal attack. What animal did you say it was again?”

I shrug. What bloody animals lived in scotland? Did bears? Were there moose? “It was some boar that escaped from a farm.” There. That was plausible. 

“Right.”

I opened up the sketch book he'd given me. Opened it right up to the page I had been working on. I wanted to sketch this sunny day. I could make out all the resorts a few miles south. Could even see the main pier. “Why do you live by the sea if you have aquaphobia?” 

Archie shrugs, grabbing his book. This one has a rather interesting painting of a woman hacking off a man's head. Black bound leather. The painting looked familiar at least. “This house belonged to my family. No one had used it in ages. And I-I only moved here when I decided that I wanted to get better. Not at first.”

“I was supposed to be visiting Leandra this summer. I mean. She invited me but I wasn't sure my parents would give me the money for the bus ride. Then this man goes and escapes,” I ramble, “so now Leandras parents think it's safer if I don't travel. I guess that saves me asking for money and them saying no. I mean they might have said yes but I really didn't want to tell Leandra that they said no because of a money issue. She's so nice. I don't doubt she'd have gotten me a ticket but I didn't want her too. Know what I mean? Or maybe you don't since your family owns a bloody load of houses.”

“They belonged to various family members,” Archie explains. “Aunts, uncles, great aunts who died without any heirs. Guess my parents never got around to selling any.” 

“What's your job,” I say without thinking. “Sorry. You don't have to answer that.”

“I repair books. Mostly sent from collectors or Liverpool university,” Archie explains.

I nod. “You can tell me to fuck right off too you know.”

“It's alright Jane. If I didn't want to answer I wouldn't.”

“I believe you,” I reply, catching his gaze. Grey eyes so inquisitive and thoughtful. “Why that?”

“Still trying to figure out the rest of your life?”

“Exactly.”

“Sort of fell into it.” Archie sighs, leaning down on the porch next to me. “Was trying to track down certain books and it sort of just happened. I'm sure a proactive young woman like you Jane will figure things out in time. And once you do, you'll push your way wherever you want to go.”

“Is that your polite way of calling me annoying?”

Archie laughs. The sound of his laughter is enough to soothe away any stress I've been feeling from my impending graduation from Hogwarts, the chamber of secrets last year, and the escaped convict. 

His laugh makes me smile. “No. Jane. I wish it had been as easy for me to reach out at your age.”

I shrug. “I don't think what I have is confidence. I just never know when to shut up. Even when I stick my bloody foot in my mouth.”

“You have lots of confidence. I'm sure of it.”

“You're only saying that so I keep cutting your hair.” Gaze goes to his hand by my side. Curiosity pricks at my thoughts like an annoying fly. 

“I buy you tea all the time,” Archie points out.

“Can I-,” I take a deep breath, trying to be mindful, setting my artbook aside, “can I touch your hand?”

With anyone else it would have felt a strange question to ask. I knew Leandra and Michelle didn't mind me invading their space or random hugs of appreciation. Michelle would tell me off when she wasn't in the mood. But Archie was uncomfortable with touch to the point he wore gloves. 

I had taken care not when cutting his hair not to graze the tips of his ears. 

My hands combing through his dark locks with tenderness. A sign he trusted me that close to him. 

Archie turns to look at me. All of the earlier lightness to his features is gone. 

“You can say no. I don't mind. It's just-” my tongue feels heavy in my mouth for once. It's just what? He's my friend. And not just in the way Mrs. Holmes was my friend. It meant the world to me, our friendship. I don't know how to put what that means to me in words. “You're my friend.”

“Okay,” Archie answers, turning to look up at the ceiling. The paint under the eaves was chipped. Revealing the age of the house. It really gave it more charm if I was being honest. 

I swallow the knot in my throat. 

I've never been more aware of myself than in that moment. Every breath. My legs dangling over the edge. My artbook held limply in one hand. 

Hell, this was awkward.

Was this how he felt all the time?

Every breath seemed too loud. 

I had to stop thinking. I was driving myself crazy. 

I reach out gently, my hand brushing against his, against the back of his hand. It's barely a brush of my skin against his and he jolts, sitting straight up, distancing himself from me. Breaking the summertime laziness we had fallen into. 

“Sorry.” Color drains from his face. 

“Not your fault Jane,” he says quietly, curling up into himself. “But it is getting late and you should be going home now.”

“I guess,” I admit. Leandra had been right. That Black fellow was going to ruin summer for all of use. My last summer before I left Hogwarts too. “I’ll see you later then Archie.”

He nods, reaching for the book he’d laid by his side. 

** * 

I get lots of summer assignments done, not having anything better to do. Readings and scrolls or parchment. Penelope sends me letters crying about the fact that her boyfriend has left the country. Mr. Weasley had taken his whole family on a trip to Egypt which was unfair. I wanted to be far away and not having to endure speculation of where Black was hiding. 

I force myself to write letters to Professor Sprout, and the shop owner of apothecaries of both Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade. And send the letters to Leandra. 

My subscription of the Daily prophet comes in about a month before the end of the summer. I’m about to run off to the tea shop, get some drawing in and talk Archie’s ear off before helping my mum and dad out at the shop, when the barn owl comes screeching in through my window, tossing the paper down at me. 

I’ve made up my mind to ignore it for later. The same way I had shoved the copy Leandra sent me onto my desk without actually reading it, but the paper falls open onto the front page. Sirius Black’s expression of maniacal laughter catches my attention. It was nothing like the police sketches on the muggle telly. His face was thin, grim. Hallows prominent in his cheeks, under his eyes. Wild dark hair, a tangled mess. 

The paper explained the azkaban escapee was still at large. Only 34. Prison had aged him. Deep lines across his features. He could easily pass as a man ten or twenty years older. 

But what really captures my attention is the remarkable similarities between him and Archie. 

It’s enough to stop me in my tracks. 

The resemblance between them only grows as I pick up the paper, looking Sirius Black’s mugshot over. Sirius Black obviously looks much rougher, but there’s the same eyes that I know so well. Silver. Though Sirus’ are much more alive, glaring darkly at the camera, madness brimming in them. The same sharpness to their jaw and cheekbones. Sirius’ runs a tad more square, more masculine. Lips fuller. An edge to his smile as he laughs. Where Archie’s hair is straight, Sirius’ runs curly.

There’s no pictures of a younger Sirius Black, but if there were, I’m sure they would look almost identical. 

A wave of nausea hits me. 

I take a seat on the edge of my bed. 

The notebook. 

It almost magically seemed to never be full because it was magical. Archie Black was a wizard. 

Archie Black was a wizard. 

I was sure of it. 

He must be a brother or something. Did he know I was a witch? He must. I gave him charmed mittens for merlin's sake! Then why hadn't he said anything? Could it have to do with Sirius Black? Had he left the wizarding world in shame?

I read over the article. 

There wasn't much. Just how he was a dark wizard. Killed a bunch of muggles and another wizard named Peter Pettigrew, and how he was a follower of you-know-who. Mostly people seemed to be worried about how the hell he'd managed to escape. 

I frown, laying down on my bed. 

Everyone was entitled to their privacy. Archie didn't have to tell me his family's deep dark secrets but, why hadn't he? I thought I was the only witch in town. I should give him space. Especially because I felt like I would ask if I saw him right now. 

It was up to him to tell me if he wanted to. 

I try to think back on anything that should have tipped me off. But Archie, while a bit well. . .mentally ill, was more muggle than I felt at times. 

Except for the notebook. 

Had that been a test?

Did he want to see if I'd figure it out?

I sit up, before deflating.

I had no clue what to do. 

  
  


I sit on the revelation for a entire week. An entire week of avoiding going to Trees and Teas. If not seeing Archie. It was the worst week of my life. I hadn't realized how much I liked his company till then. 

Even at school, there had been days when I missed him. 

Finally, my mum is sick of me laying around the house, painting my way through pots and planters outside. “Jane for goodness sake go outside. Go anywhere that isn't here!”

I look up at her from where I've take a seat in the shop, sighing. Chin resting against my palm. “Can't. There's a killer on the loose.”

She rubs her eyes. “Jane you need to get out. See people. You can't spend your whole summer indoors.”

“Even if it is the loon and old cat lady,” dad adds. 

I roll my eyes. “Mrs. Holmes only had one cat. And only because her neighbor died and it needed a home. And he's not a loon!”

“Go out,” my mum repeats herself, “and don't come back until the sunsets! Now go.”

She kicks me out of my own house. With no place to go. 

I head to the beach. Not the nice sandy beach down by the boardwalk. Down by all the resorts where people walk around pissed day and night during the summer, where families buy overpriced sodas and chips, but the northern strip of beach thats usually way less crowded. 

The local beach. The downside being the broken shells littered about the ground, like glass on my feet. It only took a few seconds of running before the soft sand started. 

It was fine.

I take a light jacket just in case it decides to rain on me even though there's not a cloud in sight. 

I wonder if Archie has noticed that I haven't been around. Or maybe he's glad. Or maybe he thinks I'm in school and isn't worried at all.

The beach. I’d take a swim and then figure things out. 

I kick off my shorts and shirt, my bathing suit discolored from use, sunbleached red. I leave my bag and clothes in a pile and let the waves wash over me. It’s cold, but I welcome it. Curling my toes up in the sand. 

I’d played in the shore of black lake, tossed snacks in for the giant squid, but this, this was better. The waves come in, crashing against my side. I plant my weight into the sand, before tilting forward and floating along the water. 

It’s only a second or two before the water recedes and I have to stand up again. Then I repeat it all over, curling up in a ball as the wave comes crashing in, letting it roll over me before rushing out to deeper waters. 

Its no time at all before I’m exhausted and floating along the shore. 

The clouds have deepened and darkened across the sky. Washed out blue instead of dazzling blue and sunstreaked. More summer showers. 

Which was my cue to get out of the water. 

I take in the view, memorizing the beach that I’ll be so far from in two weeks. My mum was going to London with me this year, stopping by Diagon Alley to get supplies then drop me off at the station. We got a hotel room the night before. Then she’d come back home by herself. 

There had to be a wizarding community in Liverpool that I could shop at. Archie had mentioned fixing books up from there. . .could he have meant magical books? Sometimes it really was a pain to be muggleborn. Completely oblivious to everything. I’m sure Michelle would know if there was a wizarding community in Liverpool. I’d have to ask her on the train if she wasn’t busy snogging some boy. 

Despite the cloudy skies, I dry off pretty fast, pulling my shirt and shorts over my damp swimsuit and wish I could already do magic. A nice warming and drying charm. I was very good at those. Even got house points during charms. 

There. That was a while. 

Now I could go back home and check if my plants needed watering. Again. 

And it even took my mind off. . .

Archie. 

Archie sitting alone on a bench on the sidewalk that ran along the beach. Arms huddled against his chest. 

I don’t even think. I just walk to him. 

“Archie,” I ask carefully, noting his red rimmed eyes, unfocused gaze. The slight tremble in his shoulders as he looks out at the sea. He doesn’t respond. 

“Archie?” 

His silver eyes look out beyond the water at things only he can see. 

I sigh. I guess this was a bad day. He hadn't had one of those in a while. Which also meant that I wasn’t going to get any answers today. Not that I was going to make him say anything. I think if my brother was a you-know-who follower I too would go live in a small muggle town. That actually sounded like a lovely plan for my future at the moment. I just needed to figure out how to get my hands on a free house. 

“I know you’re a wizard. I dunno if anyone else would’ve figured it out. You don’t much look like your brother anymore. You’re. . .well you’ve aged well. Though if you’re younger,” I ramble on quietly, watching for any flickers of recognition as I sit down next to Archie. But instead of facing the sea, I look at him. “You’re not old at all. Thirty isn’t old. I know I joke and tell my mum she’s old, but fifty isn’t that old either. It’s like the beginning of old. I guess I just know you. Anyway, i figured it out. I’m a witch too. So there’s that.” I frown when his lips don’t so much as twitch. 

“I guess I can tell you about the real story behind the animal attacks. It wasn’t a boar but a basilisk. It was crazy. There’s this thing called the chamber of secrets. . .turns out salazar slytherin hid a bloody snake in the school. Well, Harry Potter and his friends killed it. Penelope heard from Percy that this diary possessed his sister and then his brother and friends went after her. It was the wildest thing. I dunno. I guess going to a magical school I should be expecting insane shit but,” I trail off. “I’m still not going to tell my parents. They were never that happy about the whole witch thing. I think they really wanted me to go to uni and be a doctor. I mean, I’d have been the first person in the family to go to uni. Hey, what house were you in,” I look up at him, but he doesn’t look any better. Just lost. Lost in his thoughts and memories. It gave spacing out a whole new meaning. 

“Archie,” I repeat, placing my hand on his arm. “You’re in Blackpool. Well, not proper Blackpool. Just right next to it. Where all the old ladies live. My mum says that's why it's a safe and affordable neighborhood.”

He closes his eyes, squeezing them shut, jerking his arm away from me. 

“Blackpool,” I repeat. “1993. Claire hasn’t shut up about that one song that goes  _ I know what I want and I want it now _ . I always feel out of the loop when I get back from Hogwarts. And it’ll just get worse if I end up getting a job in the wizarding world won’t it.” I bite my lip. It wasn’t like my education was fit for the muggle world. 

Archie lets out a deep shuddering breath, before looking around wildly. “Jane?”

“You’re alright,” I assure him with a fond smile on my lips. “You looked pretty out of it so I just sat here with you. I’d just gone into the water.” I explain, placing my hand on his clothed arm one more. The sweater was much softer than any of mine. Like Leandra’s. “Is this cashmere?”

He gives me a shaky smile. “Yes. Cashmere.” He still sounds very far away. As though he isn’t sure where he is exactly. 

“I’m leaving for boarding school in two weeks,” I tell him, watching his expression carefully just in case he remembers any of my earlier words. “For once I’ve got all my work done. Usually I do it on the train. We should go. I think it’ll rain later on.” Archie doesn’t actually look up for the walk back. 

He nods, but doesn’t respond. 

I take that as a cue to keep talking about mindless things, leaving the heavier ‘your brother is a killer’ talks for another day. “I’ve mostly been painting this summer. So that’s going to be everyone's christmas presents. It’s actually perfect since my friends and I are leaving school this year. So they’ll have something to remember boarding school by. Anyway, my mum basically forced me to leave the house and stop painting. I’m a menace.” 

There’s a hint of a smile on Archie’s mouth. “I was wondering where you’d gone Jane.”

“So you don’t think I’m really bloody annoying,” I ask him, a bundle of nerves in my stomach. 

This time he genuinely smiles. “Not at all.” 

My hand’s still on his arm. 

I smile, beaming over at him. “Come on, let’s start walking back. I don’t want to leave you out here.” I drag him to stand up by his arm. “Has Mrs. Holmes finally perfected her samosas?”

Archie nods, “she’s hired her neighbor to work with her. Edith is getting on in her years.”

“Did you just call her old,” I laugh, walking alongside him, hyper aware of my grip on his arm. But he still looks pale and I’m actually worried that he’ll fall over with the slightest breeze if I let go. It has nothing to do with the strange warmth in my chest. Nothing at all. 

Just shove that thought into a deep hole never to be dug up. 

Archie shrugs, with a slight grin. 

“Oh you did! That’s terrible. You must never call women old! Do you think Mrs. Holmes would want a painting? I’ve run out of room to hang them up in my room. And I am planning to move down to London with Leandra. That is if she doesn’t end up abroad practicing the language she’s learning. There’s all these dialects,” I explain. “Still might end up in London anyway. I wrote some people for an apprenticeship in. . .in growing rare plants because I’ve got a green thumb and if I hate it I’m still young and have time, like you said, but everythings down south.” 

He doesn’t pull away, letting me lead him down the street. 

Even as it starts drizzling. 

I make a note to myself to brew him calming draught. If I was right, which I was sure I was, then he could probably brew it for himself. But I think my O in potions spoke for itself. 

What was the harm. 

I’ll drop it off at his place before I leave. When I know he’s taking brekkie as Trees and teas. I wouldn’t bring it up if he didn’t. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ch 4 and 5 were written as one huge chapter so i broke them up. up next. . .jane finally confronts regulus.


	6. part I: she's only 17 so she's probably not ready

“I can’t believe you’re abandoning me for Norway,” I yelp at Leandra as we claim a compartment. Michelle was too busy sucking face to sit with us. 

Leandra nods, with a giant smile on her lips, showing off her pearly white teeth, “Norway for three months. Then out to Northern Spain. The Basque country. Then Germany. The main dialects of gobbledegook. All the summers working with the gringotts goblins paid off. I’ll only be gone a year.”

“Now who’ll I live with,” I sigh, “Michelle?”

Penelope sticks her head in the compartment, “what about Michelle?”

“Only that she’s a complete slag,” Leandra jokes. “Where’s your-”

Penelope shrugs, “we broke up.” She scowls. “Apparently I’m not good enough for him now that he’s got a job at the ministry. Charming cleaning products for a living isn’t rubbish. Lots of witches and wizards can’t cast a knockback jinx.”

“Well good then,” Leandra utters. “Who needs him.”

“Didn’t you spend an entire month letting Oliver Wood cry on your shoulder,” I point out. 

“Yes,” Leandra laughs, “but he wasn’t a complete arse clearly!”

“You can get a flat with me,” Penelope offers. “Technically I’ll be up in Enfield but that isn’t too far from proper London.”

I shrug, slumping in my seat. This was it. I was a full blown witch. All of seventeen and a half. Now what was I supposed to do? “I mean I dunno. I got offers for herbology out in Norfolk and Ipswich. But I haven’t accepted anything yet. I know Professor Sprouts also sent a letter of recommendation to Kew Gardens but i haven’t heard back as of yet. I’ll probably go home for a bit, but I’ll send you a letter if I end up going to London.” Was I the only person who had no clue what I was doing? 

The station is packed with families and students all searching for each other. All except me. Mum and dad weren’t able to make it down this year. So I was taking the bus up from Victoria station to Blackpool. 

At least I didn’t have an owl. That would’ve been hard to explain. 

Or maybe I could just have apperated. I wasn’t half bad. But I’d never tried going further than across the room. I didn’t fancy splinching myself and ending up in St. mungoes. 

At least I knew I could hop down to Liverpool’s magical community, from the Calderstones shopping district to Edge Hill’s underground wizarding community and the Prince’s Park knot of stores and houses. All a stone’s throw from me. Can’t believe it took me this long to find.

I hug Leandra tightly, saying “until later! Promise you’ll write me!” Before making my way to Victoria cross. 

The bus ride home isn’t uncomfortable at all. 

Just dizzyingly different from hogwarts. As if all the magic was suddenly drained from the world. I thumb my wand in my pocket, feeling the familiar wood. I could do magic outside of school now. And I do. Just a bit. 

Just a cooling charm. 

Just because I can. 

“You’re going on vacation,” I yell, as my mum and dad fuss about the second floor of our home. Dad’s got bag’s of new clothes and treats all ready to be packed up for a trip to Argentina. Now. Of all times. 

“The economy just crashed,” dad explains. “The exchange rate is through the roof.”

“And your grandmother is sick,” mum adds. 

“Doesn’t grandmum hate you for taking her son away,” I point out. 

“Yes,” mum says, pointing her nose in the air. “We still have to go. Claire and Thomas will mind the shop while we’re gone.”

“Who’s Thomas!”

“New hire,” Dad explains, sitting on a suitcase to get it to close. “Just stay out of the way. You’ll be moving down to London soon anyway Jane. My little witch.” He smiles. 

I frown. “Why can’t I mind the shop?”

“Claire knows the job best,” Mum says, taking the sales tag of the linens she was taking with her. “And you’re going off to get a witch job. . .what’s the job exactly.”

“Growing potion ingredients,” I explain. “I dunno. It’s something I’m interested in. I’ve got the marks for a potions apprenticeship but it seems dull. Witch chemistry. Sort of.”

“Why don't you do that then,” mum comments, her ears peeking up at the word chemistry which was almost as good as doctor in her books. “Sounds much more secure.”

I shrug. “Maybe if this doesn’t work out. The wizarding community isn’t like the muggle one.” If I repeat it enough times it’ll be true. What did healers even make? 

Mum frowns. I lean in to kiss her cheek, and decide to stop putting off seeing Archie. It had been months. He hadn’t mentioned the potion I’d dropped off. Then again, I’d also pretty much fled after giving him this year’s present. And a huge painting for Mrs. Holmes of the famous beach view for her house or shop. Whichever she decided on. 

But now. . .I had to tell him I knew that he was a wizard. And about his brother. 

Another thing mum mustn’t ever find out about. Sirius Black being at Hogwarts. Having been apprehended and escaped yet again. Headmaster Dumbledore even had us all pile up in the great hall which would have been a neat story to tell if we weren’t all hiding from Sirius Black. 

None of his family was ever mentioned in the papers. 

I had followed along more closely now that I was 99 percent sure that Archie was his younger brother. 

“Just-just let us know when you have a job. Through the post,” mum says, “international calls are expensive.” 

“Okay, okay,” I mutter, getting loose from her grasp. “I’m going for a walk. My legs are cramped from travelling for all of yesterday.”

“Don’t be out too late,” dad calls out, “we’re having a family dinner tonight before we leave in the morning.”

Even my parents were going on vacation. 

I had nothing going for me. 

Art was not a career according to my mum. And she probably wouldn’t let me be a starving artist on her couch. Leandra would. But she was going abroad with the goblins. Maybe I should take Penelope up on her offer. 

“Okay, bye.”

It’s late. 

The sun slowly making its goldenrod descent into the ocean. 

I make my way up the hill to Archie’s house. It’s a good walk on a warm day. And despite the looming threat of adulthood sending me off, I loved the neighborhood I’d grown up in. The houses like landmarks. Shops full of familiar faces. Nothing like the busy city, everyone hurtling along. 

The pace of life-

I’d miss this place. 

The house always holds the aura of the back rooms of a charity shop. Charming in it’s vintage state, but paint peeling, with a sense of abandonment. 

I knock on the door. 

The bounce on the heels of my feet as I wait for him to answer. But it is me, so I can’t help but knock again, just in case he didn’t hear me the first time. 

He opens the door, just a few centimeters, so that only a sliver of his face is visible. “. . .Jane. . .Jane Saldana?” 

“Yup, that’s me. Or it was the last time I checked,” I greet him. 

Archie shakes his head, “no. . .no. . .” He closes his eyes taking a deep breath. 

“Are you alright,” I ask, taking a step closer to the door. 

“Bad night,” he admits. “Jane.”

I smile, “still me. Back from school. Never to go back again. Oh and by the way,I know you’re a wizard.” I watch his expression for a hint of surprise. Seeing if I caught him off guard. 

Instead, he only looks down at his feet, looking a bit sheepish. 

“You figured it out then.”

“Can I come in,” I ask. Nervousness creeping into the bottom of my jaw, the tips of my fingers. 

As an answer, Archie opens the door, wide enough for me to step inside. 

The inside of his house isn’t as. . .it’s not dark and depressing. The navy curtains are pulled back, letting in large swaths of light. The wooden floors, while scratched and stained in certain areas, are polished. There isn’t much in the way of decorations or portraits hanging on the walls, leaving a very streamlined look. 

I follow him into a room near the back of the house, overlooking the town. 

I take a seat on the settee next to him, tilting so I’m somewhat facing him. “Sirius Black’s your brother right? He was arrested at school. Hogwarts. I mean. But he got away. Dunno how you feel about that or if you get the prophet but thought you might like to know.” 

Archie frowns thoughtfully. “I’m not surprised this is the trouble he ended up in. My brother. Though I have to admit, I think it’s a misunderstanding. My brother was ever the muggle lover.”

It’s my turn to frown. “You’re a pureblood.” I couldn’t imagine him and someone like Mr. Malfoy in the same room. Archie with his mended clothes, and disheveled appearance. He knew how to wear a suit but not in that cold polished and pompous way Mr. Malfoy did. 

His hair was a complete mess, windswept as if he’d been running his fingers though it nervously. 

He nods. 

“And yet,” I smile fondly, playing with the edges of my sleeves. Thinking about how he couldn't even meet Mrs. Holmes gaze when she was praising him about what a help he was. 

Red creeps up his cheeks. 

“I figured it out last year,” I tell him, “when I saw the prophet. . .do you get the prophet?”

“If I can manage,” Archie admits. “But for the most part I have severed ties with the wizarding world. Until you.”

I feel heat flood my cheeks. “Sorry. About that. I don’t know why you would want to. Wait. . .did you. . .did you reveal yourself on purpose? I would've never gotten it if it hadn’t been for Sirius Black’s mugshot. And the notebook. The notebook was obvious looking back.”

“I did.”

“Cool.” I twiddle my fingers just for a bit. I didn;t think things through. As usual. “I won’t-”

He leans forward, hands clasped together, “Jane. I have. . .if memory serves me well, which it hasn’t in quite some time, you said something about a diary possessing a student. I need you to tell me everything.”

“So you could hear me,” I utter, surprised. 

Archie smiles sadly. “I. . .it’s hard for me when I fall into. . .when I am in that state but I think I have maintained my sanity for the most part. It’s just. . .like trying to hear something while sleeping.”

“Well,” I start, before telling him all the rumors surrounding the Weasleys. About some diary the girl Weasley had gotten her hands on. About the chamber of secrets and harry potter. About the basilisk. As relayed to me by Michelle and more importantly, Penelope Clearwater. 

The muscle in his jaw tightens as I go on. 

Instinctively, I reach for his hand, gloved once more. 

“Or at least that's what I heard. The official version is more along the lines of Slytherin’s pet basilisk woke up and Harry Potter happened to kill it. I’m sure to keep attention off the girl.After all, she’s just a child.” I bite my lip thoughtfully, gazing into his intense silver eyes, “hey, what hogwarts house were you in? I bet it was either ravenclaw or Slytherin.”

He gives me a tired smile, running his hand through his hair, leaving it even more disheveled than before, shoulders slumping. There’s a sheen of green to his skin, as he lets out a sigh. “Slytherin. Now Jane. . .” He trails off. 

“I’m not going to tell anyone. If you don’t want me to.” I quickly reassure him. I could be nosy and overbearing, but I was learning when to back off. “I promise Archie.” 

There’s a fond smile on his lips, transforming his face with genuine delight. Taking off the edge he had taken on when listening to the events of my sixth year. “You really wouldn’t? Would you.”

I shake my head. 

“I’ve never known you not to ask the question I know is burning a hole in your thoughts,” he says in that teasing way of his. So slight, it could easily be misinterpreted as teasing of the malicious kind. 

“You’re my friend,” I explain, my hand squeezing his. “It’s up to you if you want to tell me. I won’t pry.”

“Admirable,” he comments, “but mistaken.” Before I can decide whether I should be insulted or now, he adds, “Jane, would you like to know how I ended up in Blackpool.” 

I gaze into his silver eyes, noting how one scar runs right under his left eye, down to his cheek. His face is not heavily scarred, but they are unmistakable fingerlike scratches from this close. His thigh against mine. 

I swallow thickly. “Yes.” Because I do. How does a pureblood wizard end up leaving his entire world behind? How do I, a muggleborn, turn my back on the muggle world? 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok i lied. regulus tells his story next chapter. but things pick up from there so its fine.


	7. Part I: the man who was regulus black

“My name,” he pulls his hand from mine rubbing his forehead with agitation. Unsure where to start. “My name is actually Regulus Arcturus Black from the noble and most ancient House of Black. I was my parents second son. The spare. Sirius was my older brother. . .my parents had . . .certain expectations of us growing up. As purebloods. As Blacks. Being sorted into Slytherin was one. Upholding pureblood society. Being friends with the right people. Marrying into the right families. Very much the classic posh aristocratic drivel.” Ar-Regulus-He frowns, looking down as he clasps his hands in his lap. 

“When the dark lord came to power, my family was one of the first to know. Random attacks at first. Against muggles and muggleborns-I. . .we used a crueler word that I don’t care to speak. My eldest cousin became one of his most ardent followers. And Cissa’s husband followed. . .I’m telling this all wrong.” Regulus stands, pacing around the living room, hands running through his hair once more. 

“My brother broke with our parent’s expectations. Was sorted into Gryffindor and shortly thereafter learned the error of our parent’s way. But he was a born rebel. Matching my mother’s screams easily. He made friends with all sorts of people my parent’s looked down at. . .their differences grew every year until. . .nothing could not keep him at home. Sirius left to live with the Potters. And my parents disowned him.” 

He frowns as he looks down at his hands, before carefully pulling his leather gloves off. “I was nothing like Sirius. For me, it was easier to bend to their expectations. And. . .and I believed them. They were my parents. I believed them to have my best interest at heart. And in their own way they did, imparting their world view on me. What they believed to be best. Only. . .only they were wrong about everything.” Regulus carefully places the gloves down on the coffee table, before meeting my gaze once more. 

“A part of me wanted to make up for Sirius. Wanted. . .thought if I. . .my parents were not overtly warm or loving people. But they-they loves us as best they knew how.” He sighs, pinching his nose. “They thought the dark lord had the right idea.”

My stomach plummets. There was a very small group of people that called you-know-who, the dark lord. And I could guess where this was going from what he had said so far. “A-Regulus-”

There’s an agonized look in his eyes when he meets mine. “Jane. . .please let me finish. Merlin knows. . .it's hard enough to say as it is.”

I nod. 

“They thought you-know-who had the right idea. And. . .my cousins were already involved. It wasn't difficult-I’m ashamed to say that so did I. I would love to say that I was forced, but. . .I wanted to join. And Bella being. . .being in his inner circle. . .it was arranged. The trials. . .the mark. . .I was a foolish boy. The idiot Sirius said I was.” There's tears in his eyes, threatening to fall as he continues on, taking a seat on the armchair across from me. “The worst part, looking back, was that it wasn’t. . .it wasn’t the muggles or muggleborns that did it. It should have been enough. But-but no matter how sick I felt after, I could stomach it for what I believed to be a better world. It was. . .the dark lord asked for a house elf. And I volunteered my own. An honor. It was an honor. And. . .Kreacher was. . .he wasn’t just a house elf. Not to me. My mother gave me a hexing I never forgot when she found me once playing at being a house elf.” 

He falls into silence. 

I’m too busy wrapping my mind around this. Everything I thought I knew about. . .bloody hell I hadn’t even known his name. My stomach churns at the thought of you-know-who. He might be dead, but seven years at Hogwarts. . .I had not escaped hearing the hissed vitriol some students held for muggleborns. Had not escaped being called a mudblood. Even when I hadn't known what the word meant. 

I just can't imagine the Archie I know saying anything along those lines. Except, he isn't Archie at all.

“He returned barely alive. Appearing half dead on a rug Aunt Druella had sent mother. My mother kicked him out of the way.” The frown on his lips deepens. “I nursed him back to health myself. And when I asked him what happened. . .there were. . .our family had been involved in the dark arts for generations. And I-I was not an exception. Drawn to the dark arts at an early age. A bookworm according to my brother. I was able to piece things together. What you-know-who had done.” 

Regulus looks up, catching my gaze. What was he seeing? Terror? The sick fascination that kept people from looking away at accidents as they happened. Not wanting to see the bloody aftermath, but rooted to the spot. 

I felt sick, and hurt and unsure and still trying to figure out if I'd ever really known him at all. 

“He made a horcrux. A way to keep death at bay by splitting the-his soul. I was sick of it. The deaths and the blood on my hands. Young and disillusioned and angry at what he had done to Kreacher. I went to destroy his horcrux with the intention of dying.” He looks down at his hands, fidgeting in his seat. Looking oh so very young. “Kreacher accompanied me. Held me down as I drank the-” his complexion turned green. “Drank the poison. . .potion. . .I would have cut my wand hand off for water. . .and the monster had placed a lake full of. . .” Regulus’ entire body shudders in a dry heave. Squishing his eyes shut as he takes deep breaths. “Inferi. A horde of them.” He laughs humorlessly. “I. . .the state I was in from the potion. . .I’m lucky to be alive. But no matter how I try. . .the memory of how-how I managed to escape is. . .it escapes me.”

I look down at my lap. Away from him. From Archie. From Regulus, feeling the hair stand up on the back of my neck at it all. 

“But I did. A muggle woman named Moira found me nearly dead, drowned. Ended up in a muggle hospital half out of my mind. They had to tie me down to keep me from hurting myself. . .it was a year before I came out of that state, before I understood I was alive. It was another before I was well enough to function without. . .” He looks out the window. “The war was over by the time I left that place. And I was presumed dead. I spent five more here and there. Lost. Confused. Miserable. But there was nothing for me left in that world. My parents were gone. I had done terrible things I can never take back. . .and my brother-we were never close but I know Sirius would never do the things he is accused of doing. He’d have died before hurting James Potter.” 

“It was-at some point I realized that. . .I fell in with the muggles. Ended up in Liverpool, after destroying the horcrux. And. . .I was tired of drifting. My great uncle Lycoris had a house up by Blackpool. And I knew no one was moving or overseeing the Black accounts, so I moved in. Did some minor magic to get the paperwork in order. And settled in. And when people like Edith and Jonathan tried to get close to me. . .I let them.”

The last rays of sun paint bath the room in red. In ochre. And mustard yellow. 

I wipe the tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand. Letting silence fall around us. It’s a lot to take in. Like a lot. And. . .I don’t know where to start. 

Regulus stands up once more. 

I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t. Instead, he takes a seat on the settee next to me once more. 

I flinch. 

I can’t help it. 

Thinking of him. Thinking of how my friend, the man in whose house I was currently in, had probably killed muggles like my parents. Muggleborns like me. Somehow that was the same man who helped Mrs. Holmes with her christmas breakfast. The same breakfast I knew Peter and Roger went to. 

Who my dad called a loon harmlessly. Who now frequented Ramiyah’s little restaurant four blocks from Trees and Teas after Mrs. Holmes and he had encouraged her to open a pakistani food restaurant. 

Even Claire who didn’t much like anyone other than her boyfriend, would recognize him on sight. Because he was part of our little town. The same way I knew Charlie and his parents. 

And Jonathan Brooks who ran the local bookshop. 

For once I don't want to know. Don't want to stick my nose into his business. 

Regulus hunches in on himself, hurt clear in his expression, gaze downcast. “I’m sorry Jane.”

“I-I need time to think and I have to go anyway. It’s late. And my parents want to have a family dinner tonight. . .” I’m at a loss for words. “I’ll-I’ll be back. I just need time.”

Regulus doesn’t look up. 

Doesn’t follow me out the door. 

I don’t get a wink of sleep that night. 

Or the next. 

And I can’t help but walk by Trees and Teas, just to check if. . .Regulus is not there. For three days in a row. Not that I was counting. 

I make up my mind to go talk to him. 

Not like I had anything better to do. 

Now even my parents were gone, with a thick list of all the souvenirs they were bringing back. 

He wasn’t the same boy who’d-who’d followed you-know-who. 

Wasn’t Professor Snape to be a rumored ex-death eater. No. I’m pretty sure Michelle had confirmed that rumor for me and Leandra ages ago. 

And some not insignificant part of me misses his company. 

My parents call me for less than a minute to let me know they made it off the plane. Made it home safely to Argentina. I barely remembered any of my dad's family. 

I mindlessly draw in the notebook Regulus has gifted me. Charming the drawings little by little, layering each drawing until they come together like a disney animation. I can't put it off. Can't act like I can go on like this.

So I put on my big girl cap, and make the walk up to his house, the sun shining, a direct contrast to my mood. I tried to picture Arch-Regulus in proper wizard robes but came up blank. Even now I preferred a dress in the summer and jeans with a comfortable shirt to my school robes. Except for the cloak. Cloaks I could get behind. 

I knock on the door once. Pacing a tight circle around the porch, waiting.

Regulus calls out, “it's open Jane.”

“How'd you know it was me,” I ask, following his voice to another room, this one only had a view of the front yard. I glance around, memorizing the view to sketch later. Surely someone needs to do the illustrations for magical books and adverts: that someone could be me. 

“Everyone else is working right now,” he casually comments. White shirt wrinkled as he packs a small satchel with more things that should fit-- magic. 

My face burns. Right. “I'm working on that. But nothing really calls to me. Are you leaving? Is this about you-know-who? I won't tell anyone. Or is this about the whole diary thing? It's destroyed you know.”

He comes to a standstill. 

I was pretty sure he was leaving. Oh god, now I really would be alone. And I had until my parents got back to figure my entire life out. I didn't want to be still living with them, aimless, and unemployed when they got back. I plop down in one of the reading chairs, a faded gold color that had taken on the look of a dried sunflower. 

“I know you won't tell anyone,” he sighs, taking a seat across from me, keeping his movements slow and deliberate.

I frown and wonder if I should be more careful. He's a murderer. And-I think of everything I know about you-know-who and his followers. But here he was, after having betrayed him. That meant something. Right? “You never did look like an Archie,” I comment, starting to feel like maybe I shouldn’t have come. 

He doesn’t respond, and I can’t help but glance at the sleeves covering his arms. Was it the left or right arm that would have. . .the idea that Archie and Regulus could be the same person was throwing me off. Archie who helped Mrs. Holmes make christmas dinner for merlin’s sake! He couldn’t be. . .but he was and- 

“So is it about the diary?”

“It is about the diary. Very observant of you Jane,” Regulus finally says. “I think-I'm sure it was another horcrux. If he was willing to make two then I'd bet he made more. I need to find out how many more and destroy them. It seems I underestimated the dark lord.” He looks incredibly pale at the thought of going after more horcrux, with the haunted lost look he got on a bad day. The look he had that day at the beach.

“That's twice now you've underestimated him,” I point out. 

He looks down at his hands, averting his gaze from mine, shamefully. “Yes. . .well-”

But there's no words that could make his past actions okay. Even if he had come a long way since then. He'd risked his life. . .

“You're not the same boy that thought joining a terrorist organization was a good idea,” I tell him. “I know that. I think. I mean you’re still you, right? Except it’s like discovering your teacher doesn’t live at school except in this case the teacher was actually a death eater-former death eater which I guess already happened to me once because Professor Snape was a death eater too.” My throat closes up, and I have to shut up and catch my breath. Ar-Regulus waits for me to finish, for me to catch my breath. “It's just. . .that was an incredibly stupid thing to do. The whole death eater nonsense,” I finish lamely. 

“Understatement of the century,” he utters, looking back up at me, the corners of his mouth lifting up. The line of his shoulders relaxing when I don’t run out the door. “I will miss you Jane.”

“You're not coming back,” I frown, not liking the idea one bit. As hard as it was to digest this news, I didn’t want to  _ never _ see him again.

“I think it's best if I don't.”

My frown grows. “Can't you just let someone else handle it? Wasn't Dumbledore like you-know-who's main opponent? I'm sure he'd love to go hunting for horcruxes.” Though I think most people thought of Harry as you-know-who's main opponent. It was hard to think of the boy I'd seen running around the castle, small and slight for his age, as some rival of you-know-who. Much less the heir of slytherin. Who knows what Ernie MacMillan was on about.

Regulus purses his lips. “No. I must finish what I started all those years ago.”

I roll my eyes, “you don't look like you really want to though. You should just make Professor Dumbledore deal with it.” I didn't want him to leave. I wasn’t sure what to think, but I knew I didn’t want him to leave. A-Regulus was still my friend. The one who buys me tea.

“It's incredibly dark magic.”

“You barely survived last time.”

“I have to do this Jane,” Regulus responds stiffly. “It's the only way to ensure that the dark lord cannot rise again. I owe the world this much.”

“Then I'll go with you,” I tell him, purpose seizing me, “make sure you don't get yourself killed. And unlike you, I'm not presumed dead. Also I'm really good at potions. Professor Snape didn't take any house points away from me last year. And charms, nonverbals, plus I'm great at identifying plants.”

“I could never ask you to do this with me,” he says in the same tone that people said long winded niceties that meant no. That was the very last thing he wanted. 

“I'm not asking,” I huff, “you are going to need help. And I'm going to be there. Besides,” I try joking, “I'm doing this for me. To run away from my responsibilities.”

Regulus is not amused. “Jane-”

“I know it'll be dangerous. That's exactly why you need me to go with you.”

“Jane-”

“Regulus,” I say evenly, meeting his bright silver eyes head on. 

“Jane. You can't-I will not risk your life.”

“Oh please,” I roll my eyes, “you can't tell me what to do. I'm choosing to follow you because I want to.” If he wasn't going to ask for help, I was going to finagle my way into helping him. “You are my friend. Still. And I don't want you-know-who to come back either. I'm muggleborn after all.”

He pinches the bride of his nose. I'm wearing him down. I can tell. 

I smile, “so it's settled.”

“Jane, this isn't an adventure.”

I frown, “I know that. I'm not stupid. I spent an entire year watching my schoolmates get petrified. Not to mention your brother breaking into the school. Dementors on the Hogwarts Express. You were already a death eater at my age. So don't you dare tell me I'm too young!”

Regulus slumps into his seat, still managing to have an air of solemn elegance like the once great manors of England being turned to museums and wedding venues to prevent them from falling into ruin. “You're not going to let this go are you?”

“No.” 

“I could just leave you behind.”

I arch a brow, “but you won't. Or you would've already left.” He had days to get away but he waited. Regulus didn't just wait to run off now. 

“Jane. I could not live with myself if something happened to you. I'm not worth it.”

“You're my friend,” I reply easily. “Of course you're worth it.” 

“You were in hufflepuff. Weren't you.”

“That's what you got from this conversation,” I snort.

“Be ready to leave in an hour.” But the amusement in his eyes is unmistakable.

“If I get back here and you’re gone,” I respond, standing up, “I will find you and hex you.”

  
  



	8. Part II: Our Friend Tom

“I thought we’d apparate,” I tell Regulus honestly, as we take two seats near the back of the coach. The bag I pack fits easily in the overhead, filled mostly with clothes, my artbook, and a various few books I think could come in handy. It seemed less like going on to find bits of you-know-who’s soul and more like going down to take the Hogwarts Express. 

Regulus, now having charmed his hair to a chestnut colour, cut neatly for a change, and having changed his grey eyes to a deep blue hue, shrugs. “I don’t trust my skill in apparition. It has been a while.” There were little changes to his features, a bump in his nose, a smattering of light freckles, and most markedly, the disappearance of his scars. It was strange, I sort of missed them. I kept stealing glances at him. 

He was unrecognizable and all it had taken were a handful of charms. 

“I passed my exam,” I tell him, taking care to keep my voice down as a couple muggles board as well. We were going to London. “Never splinched myself bad, but I did lose my eyebrows. Do you know his real name? No one’s born being called you-know-what,” I sigh thoughtfully. “Like. . .no one could name their kid sauron and expect them not to grow up and try and conquer the world. Or you name your kid Solane and you just know she’s going to grow up to rack up bills on your credit card and wear lots of barbour.” 

Regulus’ lips quirk up in a smile. “Tom. Thomas Riddle.”

It was a Jane of names. I frown, “well. . .I suppose I get why  _ he  _ changed his name. Tom doesn’t really inspire the same level of fear. So what’s in London?” 

“Records.” He frowns. “There. . .there has to be something in his past that. . .that’ll tell us what else he used.”

“Well,” I look up, my pencil scratching a sketch on my notebook as the coach rolls on it’s way down the roads. “A locket. A diary. Seems the sentimental sort. I mean, why not just pick up a random rock on some beach. Make our job impossible?”

“The locket was a Slytherin family heirloom.”

I bite my lip. “So. . .he’s sentimental. I’m assuming in Slytherin. Has a lot of pride. And fears death. Pure-blood? Most likely. Do you think he was an actual descendant of slytherin?” 

“I don’t actually know,” Regulus admits, slipping into his thoughts. “It makes sense for him to be pure-blood. But. . .I know all the pureblood wizards in the last four generations. Riddle isn’t one of them.”

“So the records you want are-”

“In the ministry. It will be difficult to break inside.” I can see the gears turning in his eyes. The change in colour didn’t hide anything from me. 

“Or we could just walk in. I can for sure. Visitors pass,” I counter, charming my sketches as I go so that the drawing moves the same as the countryside passing by outside my window. 

“You’ll need an airtight alibi,” Regulus points out. 

I shrug. “Research. For a book. Or. . .I’d like to interview students that were at Hogwarts during the war. No one at the ministry will bother looking into a muggle war.”

“Fair point,” Regulus looks over at me, “it’s actually a perfect idea Jane.”

“I try,” I grin. “I can also ask Penelope more about the whole Weasley involvement in the chamber of secrets. Carefully obviously. I mean. . .if it was what you think it was. . .who gave her the diary? They had to have been really bloody careless for it to get into her hands.”

“Lots of death eaters were arrested after you-know-who’s fall,” Regulus posits, “it could have been sold as part of their fines. I remember reading how Lucius had to pay 10,000 galleons in court fines. Still, he didn’t spend a day in Azkaban so I can’t say I feel terribly sorry.” 

“Lucius?”

“Malfoy.”

I frown. “He used to come by every week to yell at Dumbledore during my sixth year. Because of the entire students getting petrified business. I met him at the gates a couple times since I was a prefect and all, you know.” I was also pretty sure he had muttered mudblood to me but I could hardly care what someone whose entire aura was so slimy thought of me. 

“He married my cousin Cissa.” Regulus adds, resting his chin against his hand, looking especially morose. He’d been off since we’d. . .since he’d told me his story. About his past. I could understand. He was essentially going back into the frying pan after having escaped the last wizarding war with his life, barely. “She was the favorite of my cousins. Drom was always perfectly content to be on her own. Or wreaking havoc with Bella. Sirius used to chase after Bella like a puppy.” He sighs. “I don’t remember the last time I saw her.”

“Well, her husband is awful.”

There’s a nasty edge to the smirk on Regulus’ mouth, “At first, Uncle Cygnus wanted Lucius to marry Drom. It was all planned out when Drom ran away with her boyfriend.”

“Gross. Arranged marriage.”

He laughs at that. 

** ***

“You need another alias,” I comment, as the coach rolls into the station. It’s nearly ten at night and the sun is barely setting in the sky. “Black won’t work here.”

“Obviously,” he rolls his eyes. Regulus had lapsed into silence, content to watch me draw, for the last leg of the journey. It was only when the signs for London on the highway started appearing that the lines around his mouth grew. Shoulders tense as Regulus locked his jaw. 

“Archie is easy for me to remember,” I tease. 

It doesn’t work. 

He’s clammed up. 

“My mother’s maiden name was Wright,” I offer anyway. “I mean, I have no reason to be in hiding or acting suspicious so why should I, is my reasoning. Wouldn’t it be stranger if someone from school saw me pretending to be someone else.”

“Hiding in plain sight.” He nods. 

We take the tube over to Holborn station. Neither of our bags take up much space and its late. So there isn’t a terrible amount of people to deal with. Which is great because Regulus looks more and more anxious every time the doors open and close. A green tint to his alabaster skin deepening every time people rush in and out. 

As much as I want to comfort him, I’m sure that me trying to hold his hand was the last thing he’d want right now. He was, after all, not Leandra who I could cheer up with a hug and word vom of mindless chit chat. So I valiantly resisted the urge to physically comfort, but planted my feet studily, and tried to keep the people from bumping into him. It was easy since he seemed to shrink in on himself. 

Regulus looks a little more like his usual quiet self by the time we arrive at the hotel. On a street lined with 18th century townhouses turned hotels. This was definitely out of one of those Vanity Fair BBC adaptations. 

“I think we should just risk apparating next time,” I tell him, before tapping the bell on the front desk. It’s a nice clean hotel from what I can tell. Also, small. Belatedly, I realize I only have a couple crumpled bills in muggle pounds. 

I’m about to explain how I’m broke to Regulus when the receptionist appears, a matronly looking woman with a full face of makeup. “Hello Mr. Miss. Welcome to the Mansfield hotel. Do you have a reservation?” 

“No,” Regulus replies, “I was actually looking to book a hotel room for the week. Double bed.”

She pulls open a thick brown leather notebook. “Sorry Sir,” she responds, “it looks like we only have single occupancy rooms for the night. I can book you there for the night and move you to a double room as soon as it becomes available.”

Regulus closes his eyes, sighing, as he pinches his nose bridge as if it was the worst thing that had ever happened in the history of the world. I'd laugh if I wasn't aware of how frayed his nerves were. 

So I cut in, “that'll work perfectly fine.”

“Can I have a name? And card.”

“Archibald Wright,” I tell her, nudging Regulus's arm gently. It does the trick. He coughs up a muggle bank card. 

I didn't even have a muggle bank card. 

The woman leads us up to our room and tells us the hours for room service, before disappearing back down the rather cramped steep steps.

“So where did you hear about this hotel from,” I ask Regulus as soon as the doors shut and he casts a muffliato charm on the room. I lay on the bed, kicking my shoes off and having a look through the take out menus. I was starving. But I didn't really have money, and I didn't want to be a dick and be asking Regulus for money all the time. 

Regulus, for his part, paces the perimeter of the room, mumbling more warding spells. “The whole street is full of small hotels. Not a whole lot of people. Tourists. We blend in.”

“Okay. . .but where did you hear about it?”

“I stayed here once. Years ago now,” he explains, doing another sweep around the room, “Followed a woman down to London. But it didn't work out.”

My ears perk up in interest. Oh! No. I shouldn't. I was so bloody nosy, I annoyed even myself sometimes. Was there a charm to split the bed? That would be useful right about now. Instead, I decided to satiate another one of the many questions that had popped into my head at the discovery that Regulus was a wizard, “did you know Severus Snape? He's the potions master at Hogwarts now and everyone hates him and he hates every student right back.”

“Is that really what you wanted to ask Jane,” he replies with a knowing smile, turning off the room's fans in favor of cracking open the windows just a tad. He was wearing a sweater in June. 

“It's been bugging me!”

“Yes. He was a year above me. And no, we weren't friends.” Regulus takes a seat in the armchair, slumping tiredly into it. With the brown hair and sweater he reminds me a bit of Professor Lupin. Michelle was always raging about what a good teacher he was, before he got outed for being a werewolf and sacked. 

The blue in his eyes has faded since the charm this afternoon. I'm glad to see the grey in them again.

“I never would have thought. Professor Snape seemed like the sort of git in school who didn't have any friends.” I refused to think nicely of him after all the picking on students he'd done over the years in class. Penelope had left crying once. “It must be awful to live so full of bitterness.”

Regulus shrugs. “Order takeout and I'll make the bed?”

I get up. “You good with pizza?”

“Anything's fine,” he replies, before waving his wand, making two twin beds out of one queen. So there was a charm for that! 

“I was supposed to move to London with Leandra this year,” I comment as I dial the pizza shop, “but she's run off to learn a bunch of goblin dialects in norway and like germany.” I should probably write to her soon. “Do you know where the owl post is in London? And what do you want on your pizza?”

“Yes,” he replies, setting his bag on the bedside table with care, before ordering his things into the cabinet. A pile of leather books. A change of clothes for the night. Taking off his shoes. “And margherita.”

I hop in the shower while waiting for the pizza. Remembering to bring my bag inside. And feeling a little self conscious about the faded yellow pajama shorts and one of the first tie dye shirts I had made. 

But Regulus didn't even notice. Engrossed in his own books. 

So I let him be, writing out a letter to Leandra and Michelle. I think about writing to Penelope as well. We hadn't been extraordinarily close in school, but she'd still offered to room with me. . .I  _ should  _ write a letter. A thank you letter and let her know I wouldn't be needing the room after all. 

I pay for the pizza with my crumpled up bills and make quick work of four slices, and feel all of today's travels catch up with me. Completely ready for bed. 

I curl up under the covers feeling incredibly strange to be in a foreign city. It was like my first week at Hogwarts. The bed just did not feel right. I squeeze my eyes shut, ignoring the light on Regulus’ side. “‘Night Regulus.”

“Goodnight Jane,” he responds, sounding as tired as I feel, but still reading. The pizza had grown cold by now. But he could cast a warming charm. It was fine. 

The black had returned to his hair. And so had the scars that inked their way across his features. Light silvery things. I could barely make out the scratches from my bed. But I knew they were there. 

I’m out like a light. Tomorrow I had a lot of research to do at the ministry. 

  
  



	9. Part II: familiar faces

Regulus has shadows under his eyes the next morning. They don't disappear under his charmed disguise as we go out in search of breakfast. 

“You look like you didn't sleep well,” I comment, as we walk the street, skipping the wonderful underground experience from yesterday. “You feeling homesick?” 

Grumpily, he replies, “Jane. Not until I've had my coffee.” 

I shrug. “So are we both going into the ministry then? Or should I go by myself? It would be easier to explain. I've also got some letters to post.”

Regulus finds the first coffee shop that isn't a chain shop but still has quite a few people going about their business. “We can go to the post first. I don't like the idea of sending you off by yourself.” He admits, then buys the largest size of their coffee and a scone. 

I settle for tea and a muffin. Fruit tea with not a trace of honey or sugar or worse, milk. Milk was only for black teas. “I'm not going to die,” I comment, nabbing is a table, “it's just the ministry. Just. . .give me an hour or two and if I don't meet up with you-we need a place to meet. Some other muggle shop? And if I don't come back at a certain point, you can come after me. I mean can it really be more dangerous than school? Fifth year, on top of OWLs, Professor Quirrell turned out to be possessed by you know who. I blame him for me not getting E. I mean, an A was fine. I didn't plan to continue. . .” 

Regulus almost chokes on his coffee. “Who was at you school!”

“You-know-who,” I shrug. “I did fine on my free response, but my practical. . .Professor Quirrell didn't let us cast in class.”

He takes a long sip of his coffee, before asking gravelly, “was there a year at school something wasn't trying to off students?”

I look up in thought, “I dunno. My second or third year there was this group looking for cursed vaults. First year was fine. . .so was fourth?”

“This is why I don't trust Dumbledore,” Regulus grumbles under his breath with a sneer. At least he looked more at ease than he was yesterday. 

My own feelings on Dumbledore weren't particularly strong, so I don't say anything. I would still be more comfortable letting him hunt for dark artifacts. 

“What if we meet up by Kensington Gardens,” I ask Regulus, “or is that too far from the ministry?”

He frowns. “The palace is open. But it's too far. I don't remember if you can tour Buckingham Palace right now? What about St James Park?”

“Where's that?”

“Outside Buckingham Palace. I'll show you. No point in setting a meeting place if you don't know where it is.”

We step inside an owl post shop north of wherever we'd been. I really needed to figure out my way around the city and quickly. But he apparently thought we wouldn't need more than a week here. There's chaos inside. Owls flying in and out. 

Feathers in the air. 

It also serves as a test run of his disguise. No one bats an eye, as they drop off letters and find an owl to tie their letters too. 

I drop off my own letters and sickles, sure to give the owl a treat, before rushing out. Thinking about-

“What'll you do for the next two hours,” I ask him, leaving behind the handful of wizard shops down an alley that Regulus said muggles couldn't see much like Diagon Alley. Leaving behind the robe clad witches and wizards. Jeans were more comfortable, but nothing said witch like a set of crimson robes. 

Regulus smirks. “Probably thinking up curriculum to bring up your defense against the dark arts abilities up to par. Dueling at the very least.”

“I plan to go through life without dueling anyone.”

“You should at least be able to duel well in case it comes up,” Regulus counters. “And you very well might need to considering what we're up to.”

I frown, deciding to change the subject instead, “Well I think our short trip was successful. No one gave you a second glance.”

“That is the idea. My main worry isn't being recognized though,” he admits as we arrive at the place we were going to meet up in two hours. Was that too short of a timeframe? “It's being mistaken for my brother. Even his _dear_ friend James made that mistake on one occasion.”

I frown. I suppose if Sirius Black hadn't spent years in prison, they'd look more similar. Regulus has the benefit of not having spent years in prison, he still looked his age for once, and was a rather handsome man. 

The park is heavily trafficked by tourist groups and london muggles alike. He is as inconspicuous as he can be. 

“You know how to get to the ministry from here,” he asks me. 

“Yeah. Leandra made us go last year. Her dad wanted to see the ministry but he's a muggle so we went the day before we left for school with a disposable camera.” 

“Two hours,” he says, grabbing my arm and looking down at me. 

“Yeah yeah. I got the plan. Just don't do anything stupid either,” I tell him. Because it feels like I should. 

“Two hours,” he repeats. 

“I'll be fine. ‘s not like anyone cares about school records from the 40s anymore. All those people are grannies now.”

“Jane-”

“Okay,” I finally wave him off, setting forth for the ministry entrance, “two hours.”

I find the telephone box alright, taking a deep breath before I enter and punch in the numbers.

“State your business,” the witch's voice calls out, as if right next to my ear. Even knowing that there's no one there, I glance over my shoulder. 

“I'd like to look up some records of students at hogwarts,” I explain, nervously rambling on, “from the great war. The muggle one. So student records from the 40s basically. I'm doing some research for a history article I'd like to write.” Which was complete horseshit. But it sounded incredibly reasonable. “About how, if any, impact the blitz had on students. Especially muggleborn ones. You see-” 

The box drops down like a lift. 

A brand new shiny visitor button popping out from the box. 

It's feels like forever before the lift emerges at the atrium. Witches and Wizards coming and going in a seat of brown, grey, and black, work robes. Some much more flashy than others, with a thick and well pressed material that just screamed expensive. While others fumbled about in robes that were a tad on the worn side. 

In my own jeans and loose blouse, I feel incredibly out of place. But the only robes I have to my name are from Hogwarts. 

I trudge on. Making my way to the security stand. “Hello. I got a visitors pass to look at hogwarts school records,” I explain to the guard who mindlessly takes my wand, tapping it with his own, mumbling a spell too quiet for me to hear. “But I don't know where those would be and I don't want to get lost.”

He nods after a second, returning my wand to me. “You'll want to go to level two. Department of Law Enforcement. Should be in the office of the Wizengamont.”

“Thank you so much Mr?”

“Munch.”

I smile, trying my darn best to look as thankful as possible, before rushing off to let the other people through. It was two hours before normal lunch hours so hopefully I'd be able to leave with the crowd. Look inconspicuous.

That was impossible while wearing muggle clothes at the ministry of magic. I caught more than one side eye while waiting for the lift. Along with a bunch of others rushing up and down departments. 

Level two. Wizengamont. 

Level two. 

Wizengamont. 

The lift doors opened and I squeezed inside. 

Two witches, each with a thick stack of papers levitating next to them, began to gossip. Ignoring me entirely. The blonde one wore dark green robes, complete with brown snakeskin boots and cat eye glasses. She looked annoyed as she complained to her older looking friend in a grey trouser robe set. 

They get off on level six, making room for a trio of haggard looking wizards to step on. “You think they'd learn not to bring magic carpets into this country,” one sighs, rolling his eyes.

His taller friend huffs, “this is all on customs. How hard is it to check the carpets! At this point they're not even bloody trying.”

My ears perk up. I'd wanted to ride a magic carpet since I heard they existed. Much more my style than a broom. But I fight the urge to ask and butt in. That was the last thing I should do. 

I was supposed to be in and out. Keep my head down.

But it was so hard! 

They continue to complain about brooms that can't go higher than a foot and some old witch having donated her old cleansweeps to a muggle charity shop. 

They stay on until level two: the same level I'm supposed to get off on. And of course there's no signs, just a the beginnings of a hallway splintering off in two directions. 

I look both way, and give up, turning and catching up to the wizards. “Excuse me! Do you happen to know which way the Wizengamont record rooms are?”

They all turn. The tall brunette one, hair closely cropped and only a shade lighter than his skin tone, answer's. “You go back down the other way. Keep walking until you get to the old bat who minds the entrance. Then just ask the book what you're looking for.”

“Thank you so much,” I reply, repeating his words in my head so I don't forget.

“No problem sweetheart. First days at work?” His friends roll their eyes and continue down the hall without him.”

“No. Just needed some old records. Research,” I explain, sticking to my story. “I dunno if I could work here. I'd get lost pretty quickly.”

“You get used to it. Michael. Michael Nyanin. And you are?”

“Jane. Jane Saldana. Thanks for everything.” I turn and walk fast down the hall. I feel like at least an hour had already gone by and I hadn't even reached the record yet. 

The hallways is long and stone coloured. A small plaque declaring it the Wizengamont. Doorways appear, branching down other halls and still no signs to help people who come down here.

I don't stray from my path. 

Not wanting to chance getting lost. 

Finally, after what feels like a very grim walk, I arrive at a tiny desk where an ancient crone, with bright blue tortoiseshell glasses, thick like bottle glass, and a cloud of snowy white hair, sits. A typewriter moving without even a wave of her want. 

“Hello,” I say, relieved to have found her at last. “I'm looking for the records of Hogwarts students that would have attended school during the blitz. Do you know where those would be?” 

She turns to look up at me. Slowly. 

The tag on her name reads, head archivist. Which doesn’t help. “Can I help you dear?” She’s about as old as Professor Dumbledore, but with none of her wits about her. 

“Hogwarts records. From the 40s. Maybe even a year or two earlier.” I repeat myself. Just in case Riddle had gone to school further back. I could always check. Write them down by hand. How was I supposed to make copies here? There was no copy machine like the muggles had here. 

“Ah,” she nods, her glasses sliding down her slim nose. “Yes. Those records.”

“Where can I find them,” I ask, bouncing on the tips of my toes. “Mrs.?”

She nods slowly. “Mrs. Crowley.”

“Mrs. Crowley, you know where I can find the files. And how can I make copies? I’d hate to write them all down by myself and I don’t have a self writing quill-is that what you use here. . .a self writing quill?” 

“Come this way dear,” she motions, and walks down the corridor. Behind her desk, until we stand above an alcove overseeing a maze of tall bookshelves that stretch to the tops of the roof. The thick scent of dust and worn parchment hangs in the air. “All the records of the ministry reside here. Divided by category, date, and lastly, alphabetized.” 

“Okay,” I nod, making myself a mental note to take a gander at Sirius Black’s case too. I mean, if Regulus believed him to be innocent, he must be. “So. . .the hogwarts records. . .”

“-going all the way back to 1717,” Mrs. Crowley explains. “The Hogwarts school records housed here are a copy of the original from Hogwarts itself.” 

“Which are where?”

“The bookshelves will take you to where you need to go,” she waves off, before accio-ing a stone block, edged with all sorts of runes. “Press the record onto the tablet. Then press a fresh piece of parchment and you’ll have an official ministry copy.”

“Cool,” I can’t help but say, reaching for the stone with my arms. It’s weight almost tips me over. And I have to pull out my own wand from it’s place against my left wrist to levitate the tablet instead. “Wingardium leviosa.” Before taking the stairs down to the maze of records. Mrs. Crawley disappears back down the hall. 

I swallow, thinking hard about Hogwarts school records as the bookshelves shift, much like the staircases at Hogwarts, as I walk through them. I try not to pay them any mind. Letting my feet carry me forward. There’s scrolls alongside books, and some shelves look like they haven’t had a good dusting in ages.

But sooner, rather than later, they stop moving around.

The Hogwarts records. 

And of course, the numbers were in roman numerals. Bloody hell. I’d be here all day. I work backwards from today, pulling files at random, checking students' years, before moving onto the next shelf. There honestly weren’t that many wizards. Sometimes all the students only took up a few shelves worth of space for the thousand or so in that decade. Sometimes it was a whole bookshelf. 

But I do make my way to the forties, grabbing files at random, and copying them when they’re muggleborn to keep up appearances, grabbing Riddle, Thomas Jr. as if by chance, like I haven’t been eyeing the Rs since I got to the 30s and 40s. There were more students at Hogwarts then. Names that don’t appear later on. Probably killed in the last wizarding war. 

I make the copy, stuffing it carefully among the other copies, and then, I turn around, and start thinking of Sirius Black. 

It's like walking in circles, shelves move. The room seems to contract and expand, but everytime I look at the walls they seem to go on forever. A deep cavern of records. Almost 300 years worth of them. 

This one is easier. Sorted among all the death eater trials, bound in black leather. It’s only about a two shelves worth of cases, but they are all thick folders. B. . .B. . .Black, Sirius II. It was thin compared to the others. I risk making the copy. . .shoving it into the notebook Regulus had given me, and make my way back, hoping it hasn’t been two hours. 

This would have worked better if I had a watch. 

Apparently it was a big wizard thing to give someone a watch for their 17th which seemed a bit silly to me. Of my friends, only Michelle, who both her parents were magical, got a watch. 

“Thank you Mrs. Crawley,” I tell her, setting down the copy stone next to her. 

“You’ve got a half bloods file mixed in with your muggleborns dear,” she says, not looking up from her typewriters, waving her wand and incinerating the page. 

“Oh,” I pretend to be surprised. It helps that I’m surprised she noticed at all. “Do I? I just saw that he lived with muggles and assumed.”

“It’s alright dear, just making sure you’re aware.”

“Alright. Bye, Mrs Crawley.”

I don’t breathe a sigh of relief until I’m waiting for a left back down to the eight floor. 

The second crawl by. 

I tap my foot against the floor. 

Finally the lift door dings. 

I can leave. 

Next thing I know I’m sent tumbling to the ground. All the papers flying through the air like an explosion. “Fuck,” I manage, sharp pain as I land on my ass. 

“Jane,” a loud and incredibly friendly voice cries out, before a mass of pink wild hair fills my vision. A familiar voice. “It is you! Wotcher Jane!”

  
  



	10. Part II: cousins by any other name

Tonks helps me up, “what in the world are you doing here Jane? Graduate already? Got a job at the ministry then?”

I wave my wand, collecting the papers back into my hands if not in precise order. “No. . .no just doing a bit of research. For this article I might be writing. I dunno, it might fall through. I haven’t gotten a job yet. I want to do something with my art,” I explain as we take a step into the lift. She’s wearing a riot of muggle clothes under her black robe, looking like the lost Rolling Stones member. “But I think it’s just as hard to be an artist among wizards as it is to be an artist with muggles.” 

“Ya any good,” she asks, her warm brown eyes sparkling with interest. 

“I think so. I mean. . .I’m no Frida Kahlo but I think I do pretty good.” I grab my notebook, flipping it open to some of the watercolor studies I’d done of the Hogwarts grounds. The water moves as it does in life. “I spent hours trying to get the water just right. Sometimes those hours were during class.”

Tonks barks out a laugh, “These are really good!”

“What are you doing at the ministry,” I ask her, blushing tomato red at the praise. 

“In auror training.”

“What’s an auror,” I ask, following her into the atrium, making for the lines that had formed at the fireplaces as people waited to go to lunch. 

“Uhh. . .” Tonks scrunches her nose in thought, her pink hair deepening into red. “Like a muggle police. . .except for magic. And with more detective stuff.”

“Well, that clears things up,” I tease. Tonks had always been causing trouble of the lighthearted variety, both unexpectedly by blowing up the greenhouse and getting herbology cancelled for the day and by bringing treats from the kitchens to homesick first years. 

We hadn’t been close. But we had been friendly at school. 

“Want to get lunch,” she offers. “I’m the only auror-well auror trainee out for lunch. Mad-eye don’t much like when we all go together. He’s convinced some wizard will attack the ministry if we do.”

“Yes. . .except,” I frown, “Tonks is there like a public ministry exit, back up to Westminster?I’m meeting someone.”

She hooks her arm with mine, “sure.” Then drags us both into the fireplace together, “Morgana Palace entrance.” 

I come stumbling out into muggle London alongside her. Floo. I’d never get used to it. 

“I’ll wake you to meet. . .who’d ya say you were meeting with again?”

“Oh,” I utter, scrambling to come up with a plausible explanation for Regulus who was obviously not Regulus because Regulus Black was dead. According to the ministry at least. “Just. . .Mr. Wright. He’s a representative of some publishing house in Liverpool. I’ve convinced him to come meet me and see if he does want to purchase the article I’m researching.”

“Ya always did like history Jane.” Tonks nods, with a laugh. 

“Binns was boring,” I admit, as we take the short walk from Morgana Palace, which blends into the government buildings along the street, to St. James Park. “but I like history. I used to read the textbook instead of paying him any attention. He was a boring old wanker. Think I could steal his job?”

“maybe once you've written one of those boring old books like Hogwarts a history,” she comments as we walk round St James, my eyes peeled for any sight of him. Even with the brown hair. 

He's sitting on a bench, aging himself by at least twenty years by wearing a navy tweed blazer that wouldn't look out of place in a charity shop, nose in his book. But he wasn't actually reading, I could see him steal glances around the park. For me. 

It was still weird seeing his eyes, expecting silver, but meeting their deep blue hue. I can almost see the light bulb moment when he finds me in the crowd. And the moment his expression closes off, catching sight of Tonks right next to me, in the middle of a story about how she accidentally stunned the wizard taking her auror dueling exams. 

“just you know me, tripped while aiming for Mallon. Got a right laugh. . .didn't bloody fail. You see, Mad-eye thought I'd meant to do it and that any auror in training who could stun the proctor was worth something.”

“Is that why you didn't get kicked out of the program,” I tease, knowing Tonks wouldn't take it the wrong way even if it had been two years since we'd last seen each other. 

“Probably,” she admits. “Otherwise I'd have gotten kicked out like Sprout kicked me off the quidditch team before my first game.”

I wave in greeting when we reach Regulus. “You did send a bludger right through the castle wall. Mr. Wright, hope I'm not too late. I sort of-well she ran into me but I've never been so happy about getting bumped into.”

“Oh you,” Tonks says, her checks cherry red, hair growing by pink, slapping my arm with surprising strength. The auror training was paying off it seemed. “I did do that. Still don't think it's my bloody fault. Bludgers like to do what they want. Even when you wack them over that ways.”

“You played quidditch at school,” Regulus asks, with the oddest look in his eye, for once, remembering his past with fondness. 

“Well,” she says, scratching the back of her neck, “for a few practices before Sprout kicked me off the team. Something about there being a bludger too many on the field. Why did you?”

“Yes. Seeker.”

“What house,” Tonks eagerly asks, “did you win the cup at all? I think we won it my last year at school. Funny how you forget that stuff with age.”

It's my turn to smack her arm. “It's only been two years. Age,” I shake my head, “acting like me gran you are.”

The line of Regulus shoulder relaxes as he stands up, the corners of his mouth quirking up, “Ravenclaw. And I think we might have won. . .I just remember catching the snitch to be honest with you.”

“Well,” Tonks grins, “if you ever want to play a little game owl me yeah. Jane, you got a sample I can show-in case anyone needs a fancy new sign or advert?”

My jaw almost drops. “You serious-you'd do that?” For me goes unsaid.

Tonks grins, freckles appearing loud and proud on her features, “ ‘course I would Jane. Gotta start somewhere with your art.”

I nod solemnly, taking my cue from Regulus, “I'll remember you when I'm a big fancy artist in Paris.” And rip out one of the water studies I had done of the lake at Hogwarts. 

She snorts, taking care with the page I'd give her, folding it up into her pocket, “See ya Jane. Mr. Wright.” She hasn't taken two steps before the crowd swallows her up. 

Regulus raises a brow at me. “You're fifty three minutes late Jane.”

My face turns sheepish before my brain catches up, “Can't you just say I'm almost an hour late? Besides, you weren't waiting here that long.” He doesn't look nearly wracked with nerves enough. And he's given to anxiety so I should know. Would know. 

He purses his lips, looking like a petulant five year old seconds before they throw a tantrum while in line for the till, “Is that so.”

I roll my eyes, walking away and hopefully in the direction of our hotel. “You'd have come after me If you had been waiting that long.” Or been looking a proper wreak instead of looking like a professor on his lunch break. Okay, a really young professor but the image was there. 

“That's would have been incredibly stupid of me.”

“You still would have done it,” I snip back as he falls into step with me, taking the lead as we make our way through the streets. “Also I don't have a watch and the ministry is huge! I only went down to the atrium with Leandra. What were you doing anyway?”

He frowns, a line forming between his brows in thought, “all witches and wizards get a watch when the become of age.”

I shrug, annoyed, “well, clearly, no one told my parents that.” It was annoying how often people forgot that I was the one and only witch in my family. Maybe if I'd have had siblings they would've been in the same boat as me. 

Regulus smiles apologetically. “Sorry.”

I ignore it. It wasn't a really a big deal. Not enough for me to make a huge fuss out of it. Especially since it wasn't his fault. “So what were you doing?”

“Fixing some things at Gringotts,” he says, suddenly very interested in the window display of M&S. 

I give him an incredulous look. “Weren't you the one who said to keep a low profile? Not exactly wise is it?”

Red creeps up his neck, “I-Ja. . .Its different.”

I cross my arms against my chest, and halt outside a store. “Explain.”

“Here.” He glances around, looking for any pointy hats or robes swishing around. 

“Yes here.” I glare at him. “You're supposed to. . .well trust me and tell me things! How else am I going to help you.”

Regulus doesn't meet my gaze, studying his shoes. 

“Well?”

He sighs, looking up, “the goblins won't say a word. It's how old families can hide dark artifacts in their vaults. Also the reason the ministry didn't just take money from convicted death eaters. They can't. The goblins don't work like that. They don't let just anyone, including the ministry, get access to a vault.”

I look him in the eyes, still frowning. 

“We needed access to large funds.” He finally explains. “And I was thinking that no one would think of-well no one is using any of the family properties. My brothers on the run. And everyone else. . .well they're gone.”

I could see his point. “You could've told me. It's not like I would've stopped you.”

“Jane,” Regulus tries, “lets just get takeout and go over the file. I'm assuming you got-”

“I got the file.”

I follow after him. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that awkward moment you run into your estranged ex-death eater cousin and tonks is training to be a death eater lol mad-eye moody would be face palming


	11. Part II: mad wizards

“Tom Riddle Jr,” I say out loud, sitting on the floor next to a much more Regulus-looking Regulus, “makes sense that there would be a Tom Riddle Sr.” Then I eat a mouthful of curry and fluffy white rice. 

He tilts his head thoughtfully, before his expression settles into a sneer, finding it deeply ironic and hilarious in the darkest of humor. “The dark lord’s a half-blood.” 

Most of the information in the hogwarts file was short and to the point. Parents' names. Thomas Riddle Senior. Merope Gaunt. Date of birth. Place of residency at the time: an orphanage to the south of London. 

So unassuming for the man that would go on to cause the deaths of dozens of muggles and wizards who had nothing to do with his quest for power and blood supremacy. 

“We could probably get there right now,” I tell him. “You said it wasn't far from London. And they'll probably need time to find the records. We could also call ahead?”

Regulus tears a piece off his naan bread, “We need a plausible reason to ask for the records. Also, I was thinking of looking up the records on his father. There might be records on the Gaunt family at my family home: if they were pureblood. I remember my mother mentioning the Gaunts once.”

“Is it smart to go to your house?” I ask him, making a pile out of the other students records and incinerating them with a wave of my wand. 

He bites his cheek, setting his takeout container down on his lap, before explaining, “Grimmauld Place is a magical house. And I'm it's latest caretaker. It will take care of me right back. Besides, there's no one else left. . .its just been sitting there unused. No one will know.”

A magic house. Of course my thoughts go a little wild: thinking of moving staircases and rooms that are not always there at Hogwarts. Michelle's house was less than magical. Just a new house in a cookie cutter suburbs that  _ housed  _ magical people and their things. 

“You know the risks better than I do,” I end up shrugging, focusing on making up a solid background for why this orphanage should give us records. “Should we track down what happened with his dad first then? I can't expect anything good if you-know-who ended up in an orphanage. There's probably a huge library in London still open right now. One that has records from more than just the city. We at least know the rough years. . .”

Regulus shakes his head, abandoning his half eaten food completely. “Yes. But right now Jane, I'm going to teach you to duel.”

I make a face. “I really don't need to know how to duel. My portego’s fine.”

He rolls his eyes. “You need to know how to defend yourself.”

“I can cast portego,” I repeat, “and my patronus generally appears. Not like an animal or anything cool like a moose, but there's some mist.”

“Jane. Moose are not cool.” He's never sounded so affronted. 

“They can mess up a bloody car,” I counter, refusing to stand up and engage. This was not happening. “And they're huge.” 

“We’ll look up Riddle Senior tomorrow,” Regulus says, ignoring me completely, and drawing his wand. “Breaking into the muggles records won't be hard. We’ll have to go case the place first.”

I roll my eyes, still not budging from my place on the floor, watching Regulus overly dramatically turn his back to me and walk the five paces the hotel room gives him room for. Not the twenty I'd seen during dueling club at school. 

“Or,” I spiteball, because breaking and entering were hard compared to just asking for things, “we could say he's your grandfather and you want to do a surprise thing for his. . .1938. . .11. . .1927. . .

“67th.”

“Yes that!” I stand up, brushing a few fallen grains of rice from my jeans, “You have the dark haired thing down. Doubt they'd look that much into some kid from the 30s. Everyone who worked there when you-know-who was there probably retired by now.” It's solid reasoning on my part. 

“Jane, realize that at our friend Tom’s age, he'd be my father. Not my grandfather.” Regulus raises his wand, nodding, “we can give them a ring tomorrow when they open.”

I realize he really is going through with his mad scheme. “Regulus-now wait a-”

There's a mad glint to his eyes I barely have time to catch before he's yelling stupify. 

A flash of red light. 

I don't even get the chance to cast before I'm knocked to the ground, unable to move. “Ouch.”

“Jane.”

“I didn't actually think you would,” I huff as Regulus silently casts the countercurse. Show off. 

“I did warn you,” he smirks. “You had plenty of time to think.” 

I get up, annoyed. “Don't.” 

He shakes his head. “Again Jane.” There's a flash of orange light from the tip of his wand. Regulus doesn't even bother wasting his breath, doing nonverbal spells with ease. 

I barely have time to raise my wand and say, “portego,” skipping the wand movements entirely. It's not enough. 

His spell still lands, shattering the thin barrier I had cast, and slipping through. Not entirely. My legs feel all tingly, like they had fallen asleep and the feeling was rushing back in the worst way. I cast the countercurse myself. 

“Jane,” Regulus notes with amusement shining in his silver eyes, “you should have the shield charm ready or cast first.”

“I did warn you I can't duel,” I reply, flexing my calf just to make sure all the weird sensation is gone. “I do okay with transfiguration. But I'm best with charms and Professor Quirrell was my last defense teacher so you can't judge me. He wasn't exactly great and that's the whole being possessed thing aside.”

Regulus snorts, taking a dueling stance once more. It's barely any change at all from his usual posture, just a little more bend at the knee, wand already in hand. “Again.”

“Or we could not,” I protest, but hold my wand up all the same. He had already proven he was more than willing to stun me without warning. 

My portego is better this time. Strong enough to block his hex. I'm grinning in celebration, about to call out, when another flash of red light hits me, and sends me sprawling to the ground again.

Stunned.

Again.

Regulus laughs, bloody asshole. Waving his wand and unhexing me. “Jane,” he says in between laughs, “it's a duel. You don't just stop.”

I huff, getting up again. “Okay. I get it. You're good at this. I think my plan should just be to hide behind you if a duel breaks out.”

“I won’t always be there to protect you.”

I frown. “Why? Where are you going?”

Regulus rolls his eyes. “Figure of speech.”

“I know that.” I vanish the takeout containers. “Well, are you planning on going anywhere.”

Regulus frowns, looking down and finding the teal carpet fascinating, “no. But you still should be able to protect yourself.”

“I think my plans perfect.”

He ignores me, getting his things ready to take a shower. “We will continue this again. Next time you should cast the shield charm nonverbally.”

“I already know how to do that,” I protest, settling on my bed and clicking the telly on, ready to abuse the 1000 channels of cable available at the hotel, “I got a O in me charms NEWT.”

Regulus arches a brow, “while dueling?”

I refuse to engage, flipping through channels instead. 

“Your problem is that you hesitate,” he continues on as if I'm giving him a smidge of attention. 

I settle on watching an old bond film. 

  
  


The british library is every bit as impressive as the ministry of magic's records. While there's no magic, care and an exceptional attention to the decor was taken. Different rooms, some temperature controlled and others where you need permission, are scattered around the main hub. 

Our main problem, is of course, not knowing where to start looking. We don't know where Merope Gaunt was from. Or where Tom Riddle Sr was from. 

“He was at least dead by 1938,” I tell Regulus, having gotten to the newspaper archives. “Do you think they've digitized the obituaries?”

Regulus shakes his head, taking deep breaths now that we'd gotten by the tourist groups queueing up for the exhibits. He was always a bit green around crowds. And the fact that he looked dead on his feet didn't help things. “Not necessarily. You're assuming they were one happy family. It's not unheard of for a muggle to run out on a witch or wizard.”

I roll my eyes. “They had a child! Who would leave their kid to an orphanage if they were alive.”

“Jane. Do try to remember who it is we’re talking about. I very much doubt you-know-who had a happy childhood considering he grew up to be a mass murderer.”

We both look around the masses and masses of records on this floor. All the newspapers starting from 1800s. Some rooms were sealed without special permission. 

I tilt my head thoughtfully, “Well. Okay, so he most likely didn't have a nice childhood. But then that means that Riddle Sr could've died anytime between 1927 and. . .well today. Or he could be alive. And come to think of it, lots of people have a shit childhood but don't become mass murderers.” I hiss at him.

“That's not what I meant and you know that.” Regulus glances at the row of computers thoughtfully. “Go look at the records Jane. Starting with the obituaries in 1927.”

“For all the newspapers!” There were at least a hundred if not more local papers and then I had to check all the weekly and monthly and daily publications. It would take so much time and I had no clue if the man was from England or Scotland or Wales or even Ireland though with a last name like Riddle it seemed unlikely. 

“Yes.” He throws me an annoyed look. “I did say this wouldn't be an adventure.”

“We can ask someone how to use one of those computer things. It would probably take less time,``I comment. 

Smugly, Regulus replies, “I know how to use a computer. Hardly difficult.” 

I roll my eyes. Of course he knew how to use one. And I didn’t. It would have been funny if I wasn’t annoyed. I shove my way past him, already knowing I wouldn't know how to use a computer. Wouldn’t be any help. That bit of muggle technology was beyond me. So I give in, and go look through the records.

“Go look through the papers Jane,” I mutter under my breath. “Let me stun you a bit Jane.” I was peeved. Still not over last night's little dueling lesson. Maybe I just needed some time to myself.

I walk to the shelves marked  _ 1920s,  _ skipping all the way down to January 1927, and start with the first paper on the shelf, sighing. Flipping all the way to the obituaries and skimming the page for any Riddles. 

Then I do the same with the next paper.

And the next. 

And barely get to march 1927.

Already feeling incredibly helpless in the face of all these records. The ministry’s way of having their records was better. If only because it had made it easier on me.

I still would like to draw the main entrance of this library, maybe even some of the paintings hung on the wall. Maybe if I got good enough some museum would want to hang one of my paintings. . .or would only wizards know about my art. 

I frown, setting the Leeds Local aside. There were books known by both communities. Wizards who gained renown for non-magical activities among muggles. That could be me. 

Wait a second! I was a witch. I didn't have to do this by hand. 

I look around me, hoping no ones around before taking my wand out of its holster. Summer in London was warm. But I was making due with a linen long sleeve to hide my holstered wand, and denim cutoffs. 

A row of shelves wasn't much to hide. Just a few meters long. But what if Riddles obituary was in the 1930s, or the 1940s? Then muggles would see a paper flying through the air. 

Could I cast a disillusionment charm over an object I was summoning without knowing what that object was? Which would I cast first? That was if the summoning charm even worked for an obituary. . .I was overthinking things. It would either work or it wouldn't. But I wouldn't know until I tried. 

Screw it, I'll just disillusion the whole floor. But- too many muggles. That would immediately cause chaos and get the ministries attention.

I feel the sharp pang of want fill my mouth, as I cast. “Accio Tom Riddle Senior’s obituary,” I whisper, before casting the disillusionment charm around the accio spell like an envelope. 

It hope it worked. 

There was no way I was going to find it anytime this week searching by hand. 

Regulus walls down the row looking sulk-y as ever. “They've only digitized up to the year 1960. He was dead before then.” 

The newspaper comes flying through the air, smacking him right in the temple, before landing in my hand. 

He rubs his temple. “I'm guessing you had better luck then me.”

I don't look up, eagerly combing the pages of the Hangleton Herald for Tom Riddle Senior. July. 1943. Natural causes were listed as the cause of death. And it's not just you-know-who's dad. But his grandparents are listed as deceased on the same day. 

Natural causes at 37?

I hand Regulus the paper so he can read it, before venturing to July 1943. I look for papers from Hangleton from around that time. Little Hangleton Gazette. Three dead bodies found mysteriously dead. “Regulus,” I call out as loud as I dare to in a library. 

I needn't have worried. 

He's right on my heals.

I skim the article. The Riddles had been wealthy. The poshos of the area. The front page photo is of a nice country house. Riddle was found with a look of terror on his face. 

It doesn't take much to make the leap as to what happened to the Riddles. Knowing what his son grew up to be. 1943. . .You-know-who would've been 16. 

What had I been doing at 16? Painting. 

Regulus stands behind me, reading over my shoulder. “Killing curse.”

I nod, feeling sick at the thought of any 16 killing his own father so easily. 

“The ministry would've known,” Regulus frowns. “But Riddle. . .he wasn't blamed. He must have framed someone. . .another wizard in the area with a record of muggle hating.”

“So now what,” I ask, “We go to Little Hangleton. You think there's a you know what there?”

Regulus nods. “He got away with it. He always was an arrogant bastard. I'm sure he left it behind as some sort of twisted win over the muggle side of his family.”

“But first Wools orphanage,” I remind him, thinking of our phone call early this morning. Regulus has lied smoothly, giving the bare minimum details needed to give life to some touching story about a son searching for his father's past as a surprise for his birthday. 

“They should have the records by now,” Regulus says, glancing down at his watch. I take a step back from him, and place the newspaper back in its place. Both of the newspapers. “Our trip to London will be shorter than I expected.”

He holds out his arm for me.

“Shouldn't the cameras see us leave,” I ask him.

He smirks, and even through the thin veneer of Riddle disguise (full brown eyes and no scars) he is dangerously handsome. “Now who's being paranoid.”

“Careful,” I correct, threading my hand through his arm, holding his upper arm lightly, minding his issue with touch. “I'm being careful.”

Then with a crack, we apparate. 

  
  



	12. Part II: childhood homes

Wool’s orphanage is incredibly unassuming for once having been home to Tom Riddle. The brownstone building has seen better days, but it fits in with the working class area it is in. And if not for the main thoroughfare three streets over, it could have been part of a quaint village like the one I had grown up in. 

Still. The woman who leads us to the main office is a haggard looking woman only a handful of years older than me. Stay hair's escape from her hijab. 

And none of the kids I catch glimpses of look content. 

I could just be seeing what I want, knowing who was raised here. 

I glance over at Regulus, but his features are carefully blank. Not a hint of worry or nervousness about him. It's an easy enough story to remember. 

But that's not what sets me on edge. 

It's discovering all the nastiness around the man Tom Riddle. He's less a scary story wizards whisper about. More real to me than he's ever been. And yet I still can't help but feel bad for the boy he'd once been, left alone without the warm touch of family blanketing him, easing the way of the world during childhood. 

“Ah Mr. Riddle,” an older woman with thin wire bifocals, her nose prominent and crooked, greets us, in a pantsuit in navy blue. “You made it. I’m Mrs. Sinclair. I run Wool’s Orphanage. I spoke with you on the phone.” She stretched out her hand, standing up from behind her desk, to greet Regulus. 

Before Regulus can blink, can freeze up, I’m reaching forward and shaking her hand. 

Her eyes widen a bit in surprise but she lets it go. 

We each take a seat. 

Regulus manages to make even the worn mass manufactured chair look like it is part of a manor house parlor with the way he lounges as if he’s perfectly in control of the situation. Perfectly at ease lying his ass off. It’s a quiet confidence that could only be born from age and having grown up with the privilege of wealth. He even manages to pull of the shadows under his eyes, looking attractively tired. If that was even a thing.

So different from his more open demeanor when we were in Blackpool. 

“Yes,” Regulus replies, “Thank you for fitting us in on such short notice. I’m sure the records from my father’s time couldn’t have been easy to dig up.”

Mrs. Sinclair plasters a smile on her lips, glancing between us, before replying, “it was no problem. I think it’s a lovely thing to do for your dad. We rarely hear from children once they leave from here.” She looks over at me again even though there’s no reason for her too. 

I have to actively stop myself from frowning. 

“Well,” Regulus says evenly, “my father rarely talks much about his childhood. But mostly I think it’s because he doesn’t much like remembering the war.”

She smiles brittly. Before reaching for a thin khaki folder, passing it easily to Regulus, and fixing her gaze at me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t get your name.” 

It’s a good thing he’d coached me beforehand, telling me not to give out my real name, just in case. Or else I’d have already blabed. I hope I didn’t hesitate too long, thinking up a name. “Michelle. Michelle Clearwater.” 

“Lovely to meet you Miss Clearwater.” She smiles tightly. Before turning her attention to Regulus who only took a glance through the file. “That was all I was able to find. Miracle it all survived the blitz, being so near the city.”

Regulus nods. “I’m glad. But if you don’t mind, I’d like to take a copy. I’m sure my family would love to look through it as well.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Sinclair says, “You can go ahead and take it. That’s a copy anyway. Saved us a bit of time.”

“Thank you again.”

“It was a pleasure Mr. Riddle,” Mrs. Sinclair says with a frown. 

We take our time walking out of the orphanage, pretending like I don’t want to go running out, itching to see what’s in the file. Track down Merope. And maybe some more horcruxes. We already knew that at least one was likely in Little Hangleton. 

I’m still stuck on what Mrs. Sinclair’s obvious problem with me was. Her sideways glances, and frowns. It could be the whole brown thing. Muggles had more issues with race than the magical community did.

I frown, following Regulus down the street, toward the main street, where cars and cabs rush by. He glances over at me, while waiting for the pedestrian walking sign. “She thinks we’re together,” he tells me casually, “and she disapproves.” 

“I didn’t say anything,” I reply, thinking his words over. What it must have seemed like in Mrs. Sinclair’s eyes, us having shown up to Wool’s together. 

“But you were thinking it.”

“Okay, so I was,” I admit, glancing around this new part of London I’d never been to, south London. It was a huge city, with what seemed like lots of smaller different cities hidden within. “Are we going to apparate again?”

Regulus nods, rubbing his eyes, rubbing the colour changing charm away. “In a minute. I thought you’d like to walk around the city for a second.”

“We could find a park to go over the file in,” I add eagerly, already glancing around at the square, wanting to find a hint of green leading to a park. 

He offers me his arm once more, “Hyde Park isn’t far from here.” 

I place my hand on his arm, “sounds good to me.” 

We apparate with a crack, appearing near the bandstand. 

We’re just to more people among the people walking by. The people jogging around the park in very Princess Dianan like styles. I make a beeline towards the grass under a tree, wanting to escape the summer sun. 

“So,” I ask Regulus, “what have we found,” lying back on the cool grass, not caring about any grass stains I’m sure to get. 

He sits down next to me, not eagerly delving into the file we’d gotten at the orphanage. “Lots of reprimands. Apparently there were some incidents of the magical variety. He was also born there actually.” He frowns. “Merope died in childbirth. That never would’ve happened at St. Mungos.”

I wave my hand, “yes, yes. Muggle doctors are ages behind. What else is new. Does it say where she was from.”

He shakes his head, “There is a middle name. Marvolo. It sounds familiar.” Regulus rests his chin against his hand, thinking. “Gaunt. . .I know it sounds familiar. . .”

Sitting up, I peer over his shoulder at the file. There’s an incident involving a pet rabbit. Riddle stealing other children’s things and hiding them on multiple occasions. Like trophies. Regulus was probably right about the horcrux in Little Hangleton. It certainly fits the profile I’d imagine for someone to grow up to be a dark wizard. 

I lean back and lay in the grass again, wanting to take some time off from thinking about Tom Riddle. Hopefully my parents have gotten my letter by now. 

“We’re leaving London soon right,” I ask Regulus, letting my eyes close and just drinking in the summer breeze. Even the sounds of swans and ducks in the not so far distance sound lovely. 

“Yes. As soon as I stop by Grimmauld Place for some things. Marvolo Gaunt. . . .” 

“Don’t you mean we,” I tease. 

“No.” He sets the file away. “Other than showing cruelty from a young age, and the same habit of having trophies. . .there isn’t much at wool’s we didn’t already know.” 

My eyes flash open, and I sit up. ‘What do you mean no? Why can’t I go with you?” London was great. But it sucked being in a city being all secretive. Or else I'd have already visited Penelope. But she thought I was in Blackpool.

Regulus shakes his head with an air of severity. “I'm sure you can spend some time sightseeing. I'll give you some money and you can go out and explore.” He  _ seemed  _ to think it was a great idea. And that I should be overjoyed. 

Instead, I frown, feeling annoyance rear its ugly head, “I'm your friend. You don't have to-have to pay me off.” 

“Jane,” he says in a rush, “that's not what I meant. Mean.”

“Then what do you mean.”

“You should have time to enjoy. . .being in London.” Is his reply. Regulus doesn't meet my gaze, busy observing the people passing by. 

“You mean a break,” I retort, crossing my arms over my chest. “I need a break. You're the one who looks like they haven't slept in days. . .have you slept at all?” I didn't remember him coming to bed last night. And he was always awake before me. “You haven't been sleeping have you.” I can't help the worried look on my face. 

“Jane,” he says in a strong  _ drop it  _ tone. 

“If you don't want me to go with you, all you have to do is say so.”

Regulus frowns, a line forming between his brows. But he doesn't respond. So he hasn't been sleeping and is being cagey about going to his old home. 

“Is it Grimmauld Place,” I continue on. “I can just go back to the Ministry records if you don't want to go there.” Because I didn't want him to ever do things he didn't want to. I hated that haunted look he got in his eyes sometimes. 

“You are the most frustrating person I've ever met,” Regulus says, running a hand through his hair, with the fondest tone that makes my heart flutter in my chest. 

“I think you mean the most doggedly persistent person.” I grin. 

He laughs, pocketing the file into his back pocket. “Yes it's Grimmauld Place. No, don't give me that look. . .Jane it's nothing traumatizing,” he deadpans. “It's just. . .I would prefer it if you didn't come with me.”

“Okay.”

He raises a brow, “just like that.”

I nod. “I don't mind. Just don't be an ass. And for merlin's sake sleep, would you.”

“It's just-,” he lays down on the grass, even though he's wearing a white button up which will surely stain green. “Remember when I told you that my family. . .was into dark magic and blood supremacy.”

“Yes,” I nod, my thoughts straying. Regulus looks so comfortable laying down, and the fact is reflected in his features. Losing the usual signs of worry and nervousness. He's still so young; I have no clue how I ever thought he was old. At that moment I want nothing more than to lay down in the grass and curl up next to him. Something I'm sure he would hate considering his aversion to touch. 

“Well. . .,” he trails off. “Grimmauld Place is a reflection of that and. . .there’s. . .certain things. . .”

“It's fine,” I wave off. “I get the picture. I'd be more than willing to with you if you wanted me to. But I'm sure I can find some part of London to walk around in.”

Regulus sits up. “I’m being an idiot aren't I.”

I shrug, “your words not mine.”

“Let's just go to Grimmauld Place.” He stands up, dusting the bits of grass off his dark jeans and making a face when he sees how the grass stained his shirt sleeves. He offers me his hand. 

I roll my eyes, clutching onto the fabric of his shirt instead.

We apparate with a crack. 

The entire world blurs. Goes black. And then we're standing in the middle of a quiet London square, the honking of cars sounds far off, but it can't be more than a block away. Rows of pristine georgian houses stand in front of us. It doesn't look too different from the street our hotel was on. Except these were clearly still stately homes for old money. 

Regulus walks up to the curb where No. 11 and No. 13 sit. With a wave of his wand, the building elongates, revealing the missing number 12. Number 12 Grimmauld Place. It was as magical of a house as I’d imagined. Appearing out of thin air, the steps leading up to the house reach the sidewalk, grinding to a halt. It fits in perfectly with the houses flanking it. 

We walk up the battered steps, leading to a worn wooden door the color of dark moss. There’s a knocker in the shape of a twisted serpent, silver with tarnished marks. There’s no doorknob, lock, or peephole. 

I look over at Regulus, waiting for him. 

He swallows thickly, glancing down at me. “Jane. . .promise me you won’t think too badly of me.”

I roll my eyes at his melodramatic antics. “You’re acting like you have dead bodies inside.”

Red creeps up his neck, and he’s suddenly very interested in his scuffed up loafers. “There are taxidermied house elf heads.”

I snort in disbelief. It certainly looked like a house anyone could call home from the outside. “Lovely. Shall we?” I offer him my arm. 

He raises a brow, smirking, “I thought your plan was to hide behind me.”

“I can always shove you in front,” I retort, but let him go first. Not that I have much of a choice, as he steps in front before the door fully opens. 

The hallway is dark and absolutely covered in dust. “Lumos minor,” I whisper, ignoring Regulus’ glare at ruining his stealthy entrance. He had said it was abandoned so there was no real harm in being able to see where I was standing. 

In my soft wandlight, I can better make out grime covered portraits, like the ones at Hogwarts, their colors long gone dull. Empty of their inhabitants. A chandelier that’s more cobwebs and dust than glittering silver. Wallpaper is peeling off in strips from the walls. And I can’t make out what color the carpet once was. 

There’s no windows from what I can see. Not that that’s much. I am able to make out the beginnings of other rooms also coated in dust. It’s all rather sad. Or a perfect halloween movie set up. Like the horror movies my mother loves to watch. Where the slasher is always coming up right behind you. 

I glance over my shoulder, but there’s nothing. No one. 

A haunted house in the making. 

Regulus shoves me behind him, as we reach the end of the hall. I can just make out the wrinkled faces of house elves. It’s not a cheery sight. Dunno why anyone would want them in their house. “Hey-,” I start, before he grabs my hand. 

His hand squeezing mine. 

That shuts me up. 

There’s a huge portrait taking up the wall directly in front of him, with less dusty curtains than the rest of the things inside this house. The woman in the portrait is looking shrewdly at Regulus, black hair streaked with grey that only served to lend her a stately air. Her head lifted up, so that she had to look down her nose at people, a sneer etched into her features. 

The resemblance was uncanny. 

I knew without him having to tell me that she was his mother.

“I smell a mudblood. . .soiling the house of my fathers,” she utters, in much the same way Marcus Flint would grumble when Professor Mcgonagall would rock him house points. Complaining to his group of sneering friends. 

I can't help but flinch at the tone. Knowing it's me she's. . .”Can portraits smell,” I whisper.

Regulus ignores me, still caught in a staring contest with the portrait of his dead mother, his grip on my hand tightening. 

“Orion,” she wonders out loud with a frown, her gaze focusing on Regulus. “Is that you? I didn't commission a portrait for you.”

Regulus raises his wand and closes the curtains. 

The portrait doesn't make another sound.

“It's an alarm system of sorts,” he says, letting go of my hand. 

I try not to feel too disappointed. 

“Like fire alarms,” he finishes lamely. “Still, I'm sorry you had to hear that.”

“It's fine,” I brush it off. “I'm not going to burst into tears because of a portrait. Not like I haven't heard it before.” We head up a floor, and I try not to look too closely at the heads but fail, instead changing tactics to try and recreate them in my sketchbook later. 

Regulus halts by the staircase, frowning. “Who called you that?”

I look down, biting my lip, and feeling my face heat up. “You know. . .just dumb people. It really doesn't matter. I don't care.”

“Jane. . .”

“Marcus Flint. Some Ravenclaw girl when me and Leandra took a table during exams in the library. Mr. Malfoy. Some old woman in Diagon Alley. No one important.”

Regulus sneers, “Lucius is a leech.” 

It's touching. And as silly as it is, I can't stop thinking about how he'd held my hand. Actually held. 

Okay so the circumstances explained a lot but-

“Didn't he marry your favorite cousin?”

Regulus shrugs, before deadpanning, “She might be my favorite cousin, but she obviously has dubious taste in men.” Neither of us point out that his cousin would probably say the same. 

I look up, smiling softly at him, feeling incredibly lucky to know Regulus, feeling incredibly glad to have reached out to him after all the days I’d seen him eating alone at Trees and Teas. Like me.

He smiles back at me, before reaching his hand up to cup my cheek. His hand barely ghosting over my skin. And yet I feel a surge of emotion at the feeling. My nose burning, heat rising, under my skin, bubbling up inside. 

My gaze meets his own, a softness he didn't often allow himself in his silver eyes. Even the scars that were as much a part of him as the fact that his hair was black and he reads the newspaper instead of just watching the news on the telly. The fact that he's always got a book to read. 

For a few precious moments, the world seems to hold still, to boil down to Regulus and me and for once I don't know what to do with the feelings making my heart flutter in my chest. If I want to kiss him or hug him or thank him. 

“Master Regulus!” 

We spring apart.

A voice croaks, choked by tears, “My master Regulus is alive!” A small and incredibly wrinkled looking house elf appears from further down the hall. There are tears in his eyes. As he runs down the hall, spry for his age. 

Regulus turns to the house elf, and crouches down, letting the being launch itself into his arms, “Kreacher!” Regulus hugs him back, a look of joy on his features. 

When the house elf releases him, taking a few steps back, he starts slamming his little fist into his head. “Kreacher is sorry,” his voice wavers as he hits himself, “Kreatcher left Mast Regulus behind!” The distress is clear in his voice. 

“Kreacher,” Regulus sighs sadly, “stop. It’s fine. You did exactly as I told you too. I’m alive. And really, I should have had you apparate both of us out of the cave.” 

Kreacher stops, but still sniffles. He looks up at Regulus, catching sight of me just behind him. 

I’ve only ever known the house elves from Hogwarts. All more or less happy in their companionship. And more than willing to give students food if we ask nicely. The house elves there, despite their indentured servitude, had none of the obvious misery Kreacher carried from spending years alone in this decaying house. 

Kreacher spots me, his gaze going hard, “do not worry Master Regulus. Kreacher will get rid of this filth.”

Regulus pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing heavily. “No. Kreacher. Jane is my friend. Who happens to be muggleborn, yes. But she is. . .she is to be taken care of. Kreacher. Do you understand?” Red dusts his cheeks. 

Kreacher nods with a great severity, as if being asked to do a great sacrifice by Regulus. “If that is my dear master Regulus' wish.” 

“Now. . .,” Regulus says, his gaze still fixed on Kreacher. “Clean up this house. There’s dust everywhere. And take care of yourself Kreacher.” Before dragging himself away, and into a library. Just as dark and grim as the rest of the house. Shelves absolutely coated in dust. 

Regulus knows exactly where to look to find what we’re here for. Making a beeline for a bookcase in the corner. Accio-ing a box to his hand without a wand. This was, despite the years and decay, his childhood home. 

And it clearly still had a spot in his heart, for him to move about so easily, dropping his guard upon being greeted by Kreacher.

“Kreacher will have this house clean!” He looks revived by the directions. As if his life has taken a greater purpose than wallowing about, haunting an old house. Before disappearing back into the house. 

Regulus does not look up from the book, noting with a great deal of embarrassment. “My house elf.”

I shrug, “Is that the book on the Gaunts.”

He nods, finally meeting my searching gaze. “I knew I had heard the name before. I assumed they had to be a pureblood family. Gone extinct. It has happened to many families over the years.”

I tilt my head in thought. There was only a small handful of students in my own house who could be considered purebloods. The vast majority were halfbloods or muggleborn like me. Which made me wonder about Slytherins. How many of them were halfbloods spewing hateful ideas about their parents or grandparents. “Anything useful in there? Like where Merope was from.”

Regulus smiles bitterly, “Little Hangleton.”

I laugh humorlessly. Of course. She had met Riddle Senior where she lived. 

“But,” he frowns, “it says she was a squib. And Marvolo and Morfin, her brother, were both charged and arrested for crimes against muggles.”

“Think Tom framed one of them then,” I note, “they had a history after all. If their house was abandoned after Tom. . .murdered his father’s family, it would make a good hiding place for a horcrux.”

Regulus nods, “my thoughts exactly. Now let’s get out of here.” He offers me his hand. 

I try not to think too much of it when I take hold of his hand, and with a crack, we apparate back to our little hotel room. Thankfully, devoid of dust. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> regulus busy taking notes on anyone whose ever been mean to jane lmao


	13. Part II: this is (not) a date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> timeline: this is like june 1994. bertha jorkins has gone to albania on holiday where she runs into peter pettigrew and voldemort. its the summer of the quidditch world cup where harry and the weasleys go but i think that closer to august then where im at atm.

I wake up to screams. 

Filling the dark room. I scramble out of bed, reaching for my wand on the nightstand. 

Regulus screams in his sleep. The sound tugging at my heart. I toss my wand aside; useless in this case. And. . .and try to wake him out of the nightmare he’s in. “Regulus,” I utter restlessly, still groggy from sleep, pulling back from reaching out to him. My unwanted touch might make things worse for him. “Regulus, you have to wake up.” 

He doesn’t, shifting violently in his sleep, haphazardly making jerky hand movements: making wand movements. 

“Regulus,” I repeat, my voice rising in volume with my own worry and panic, desperate for him to wake up and be okay. “Regulus, wake up! It’s not real!” 

He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t wake up. 

Screw it. I reach out, ready to shake him awake if only it’ll get rid of the agonized expression on his features. Half snarl, half desperation, sweat on his brow. My hands close around his shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, when he sits up suddenly, nearly slamming right into me. The expression in his eyes is wild, unfocused, unknowing. 

“Regulus,” I whisper as gently as I can. “Regulus it’s me. Jane. You’re in London.” 

My words don’t ease the agitated expression on his face. Fear like poison in his gaze, looking around the room at things that aren’t there. Curling into himself. His hands, fingers digging into the skin of his chest. “No, no, no,” he shakes his head, words barely audible. 

“You’re in London,” I repeat, reaching out to him, figuring I can’t make things worse than they already are. “You’re safe. You’re safe. It’s not real.” My arms wrap around his neck, bringing him close to me, letting him curl into my side, as I sit down on his bed. “You’re safe.”

Regulus trembles in my arms, and I let him, repeating the words, “you’re safe,” like a mantra. 

The clock reads twenty four past three in the morning. I wonder if he’s been having these nightmares since we got here. How I’ve missed being woken up in the middle of the night before today. Or if he’s just having a bad day. 

Eventually, he stills in my arms. 

I run my hand through his hair, relaxing as he calms down. Comes back to himself. “Jane,” he whispers, confused as he frowns, looking up at me, glancing around the room. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s me. You’re in London. We’re. . .taking a trip.” I nod, “You’re safe. I’ve got you.” I wonder how many nights of his life it’s like he never left, never survived the cave. 

But it’s not until he pulls away, putting space between us in the tiny half of the transfigured queen bed, that I know he’s alright. Regulus shifts, until he’s laying in his bed, on his side, all while leaving enough room for me.

I lay down on my side, facing him. Unsure of what to do, what to say, “Do you know where you are,” I finally ask, resisting the urge to reach out and cup his face in my hands. To do more. It’s impossible for my thoughts not to stray there, when we’re both lying in bed and my feelings for Regulus have been a confusing mess lately. 

He nods slowly, eyes meeting mine, in the dark. “London. Searching for horcruxes.”

I don’t say anything, letting the early morning, or extremely late night silence, fill the room. It’s too early for there to be any light outside, but the moonlight keeps us from being completely in the dark. 

“I’m sorry you had to see that Jane,” he utters. 

I scrunch my nose up. “I don’t mind. I just-you’re okay right? Now?”

“Just a nightmare,” Regulus replies. “I get them every now and then.”

“Why don’t you take dreamless sleep potion,” I ask, it wasn’t hard to brew. But then again, I had the temperament for brewing potions. “I can brew one for you.”

He shakes his head. “No. I’ve been. . .I’ve leaned far too heavily on potions in the past. And-and it’s been a while since I had a dream this bad.”

“What’d you dream about,” I ask him, unable to help myself. I knew Regulus wouldn’t tell me if he didn’t want to. And he was usually fine with my habit of prodding. 

Looking up at the ceiling, he replies after taking a deep and slow breath, “the cave. Inferi. So many inferi. Sometimes I think I’m still drowning.” Which explains his hangups about water. “I thought I’d kicked the habit, but lately the nightmares have come back.”

“Maybe it’s just being here in London. Bringing up old memories,” I posit. 

“Maybe,” he says, sounding distant. 

“Is that how you got the scars,” I ask. I think we’re close enough now where it isn’t rude. “You don’t have to answer that,” I rush to add, “I’m lucky Leandra didn’t think I was rude when I asked her what the bloody hell passover was during first year.”

He chuckles. “Yes. I usually used a charm to cover them up. But I forgot my first day in Blackpool, and I wasn’t going to risk questions about it after. Worked out though,” he muses, “people tend to keep their distance better, when you have as many scars as I do.” 

I giggle, thinking about people trying to be friendly to Regulus, while he was trying to be discrete. I remember all the times Michelle had hit on fit men in the Three Broomsticks, shameless as always. I’d have mistaken Regulus for rude, when I first noticed him in Blackpool if I hadn’t taken note of how at ease he was with Mrs. Holmes. And anyone Mrs. Holmes, liked, was a good sort in my book. “I don’t mind them,” I confess. “It’s weird. Seeing you without your scars actually. I’m so used to seeing you like that.” I yawn, my body reminding me it should be asleep. 

“You don’t have to lie for my benefit Jane,” he tells me. 

I shake my head, my eyes starting to slide shut, “When have you known me to be a liar,” I ask him. 

Regulus snorts. 

And I let myself go back to sleep. Satisfied he’ll be alright for the night. 

  
  


I wake up before Regulus for once. Still lying in bed with him. 

Expecting to leave London today, I pack my things up, make my bed again, and take a shower. By the time I’m done detangling my hair, and finished dressing, in a purple floral dress that hits below my knees, Regulus is awake. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes. 

“Did you finally get some sleep,” I ask, folding my pijamas up and packing them back up in my bag, “Little Hangleton is in Yorkshire. A few hours from here right?” I couldn’t say I wasn’t excited to see another place. Travel around England. 

“Actually,” Regulus says, still groggy from sleep, “I was thinking, you didn’t come all this way to London just to leave without seeing anything.”

I shrug. He had warned me this wouldn’t be an adventure. “Hyde Park was lovely yesterday. I did some sketches last night, when we got back.”

He smiles fondly over at me, getting out of bed. “So you don’t want to go to the V&A? Looking at some old paintings and sculptures. You do want to be an artist don’t you,” he teases. 

I scrunch up my nose, “I didn’t say I didn’t want to go.”

“We’ll leave for Little Hangleton tonight,” Regulus explains, before waving his wand and returning the two beds into the one bed that was originally here when we arrived. “Let’s head down and check out.” 

Neither of us bring up having fallen asleep together last night. 

  
  


The museum is the most beautiful place in the whole entire world. From the grand entrance, marble and sculptures rising inside. Men and angles and an arch that catches the morning light. I'm so captivated, I let my feet lead the way, watching the expertly crafted and immensely complicated wood sculptures. The paintings that millions have seen through the ages. 

A room of bronze replicas from around the world. White marble catching the eye as we take our time walking around. Michaelangelo’s David towers over us. Larger than life, larger than I’d imagine the famous sculpture to be. A spiral tower from the roman empire. Donatello's david with a fig leaf for victorian propriety. 

I don't even realize I've found a bench and sat down until I look up, flexing my hand. Cracking my cramped fingers, a rough sketch of the room. I do quick mock ups of people walking around the museum, none with enough detail to be any one person. 

I try to match the level of detail found in the art pieces housed in the museum. Drawing a figure from an intricate tableau, some 17th century man the size of my little finger. And the artist had done this over a hundred times, each figure just as life like and individualized as the next. Wood. Marble. Bronze. 

Canvas. 

I have to take a seat, to keep my sketchbook from moving, so I can focus on drawing. 

Regulus takes a seat next to me, and opens up a beaten up copy of  _ The Song of Solomon.  _

I focus on sketching him. The curve of his well formed mouth, the corners of his mouth pointed down as he concentrates on reading. The line that forms between his brows when he’s thinking. The worn grey sweater with the cliche brown elbow patches he’s wearing. The straight line of his shoulders, even sitting on a wooden bench. I take care to draw his hair as neatly as he likes it to be, black locks falling softly, brushing the tops of his ears. 

His sharp jawline. A certain delicate beauty he held. 

It’s easy because he’s so relaxed. 

People who know they’re being drawn, never act normal. There’s always some tension as they try to pose, even unconsciously. 

And I like drawing him. Could almost do it from memory. 

I space out as I draw Regulus, imagining what it would be like to kiss him. I can almost feel his hand against my cheek, the warmth of his touch. How bubbly I had felt in that moment, the heat of the moment, the tension of thinking what might happen. What could.

Color rises to my cheeks, and I duck my head down, breaking off from shamelessly gazing at Regulus, and hope my face isn't too red. I bite my lip. My pencil stops moving across the page. 

It was a silly thought. 

He didn't-

It hadn't seemed as silly yesterday. It was hard not to read into things, to feel like he might. . .was going to do something yesterday, when he was so careful around people. Careful not to touch people.

I think of how close, how intimate we'd been, laying in bed together. 

Nothing like sharing a bed with my girl friends. 

Ugh, I press my pencil against the page, mindlessly drawing the whomping willow, my mind spinning. Unable to focus on what I was here to do, draw. I frown. Unable to stop thinking about Regulus now. “Were any of these artists wizards,” I ask him, needing a distraction. 

He looks up from his book, nodding. “Schiaparelli. Rossetti. I'm not sure if they have any paintings by Le Brun, but she was a witch. There's probably others.” 

I tilt my head in thought, maybe I could make the art thing work. One foot in each world. If I ever got any commissions. After I was done running around, offing bits of you-know-who's soul. “I guess I can give myself five years,” I think out loud, “if it doesn't work out I'll go grow plants or something. I've got a pretty good green thumb if I do say so myself.”

“You’re also excellent at potions,” Regulus adds, “you brew a mean calming draught. Much stronger than anything I could manage at your age.” 

I shrug. “Potions is just patience. And nothing makes me feel more like a witch than stirring a cauldron.”

He snorts. “It's much easier to just buy potions.”

I grin, getting up, stretching my legs from having sat on the terrible wooden bench, “spoken like a true posho.” Potions were expensive. “Even a basic cure for boils is 15 sickles an ounce. I could brew an entire cauldron for that price.”

Regulus shakes his head, taking his time to put a bookmark in his book, before following after me. The sun’s still streaming through the many windows of the museum. It's a maze. As I try to find the exit again, finding myself in the asian exhibits. Beautiful silk tapestries and complex embroideries. Jade congs in the shape of dragons. 

“Since it was before the statue of secrecy,” I question, peering closely at the jade cong, “do you think they're based on actual dragons?”

“I'm sure there's a book on it,” Regulus states. “We can order one, or buy it once we're finished with our business in Yorkshire.” We had both decided not to say where we were going, just in case someone was listening. 

“Speaking of leaving,” I remind him, “should we be making our way to the train station by now? How do you even destroy a you-know-what?”

Regulus glances down at his silver watch. It wasn't a flashy piece by any means. But it had that sleek expensive look. A black background with white diamonds for the hour marks. White gold screws around the time piece. Not a scratch despite the years he'd had the watch. Since he was seventeen. “We're making great time. If you want to stop in another gallery.” 

I shake my head. “My hands all cramped up.” And I can't stop staring at you, in a room full of priceless art. Silly. Dumb. “So what are we going to do when we find  _ it. _ ”

“Basilisk venom,” he counts off, “fiendfyre.”

I wait for more. “What else,” as I finally find the exit to the museum. After finding myself in the first gallery all over again. 

Regulus frowns. “That's all. Those are the only ways I've found. This-people, even those interested in the dark arts, weren't exactly keen to go about splitting their souls. Even for immortality. You can't predict the outcome. And. . .it isn't the most attractive option if immortality is what you're after. Living on as a shadow. Any type of magic that looks to cheat death,” he rambles on, “I mean Nicholas Flamel has been alive for centuries but he can barely get around. His body aging terribly.” 

I fiddle with the fabric of my dress, a little part of me waiting for the moment when Regulus offers me his arm--to side apparate but still. “How many do you think there are? Hundreds?” He had killed loads of people. 

Regulus doesn't reply, leading us down the busy street. Knowing the streets of London like the back of his hand. 

Our conversation is grim for the lovely weather. Not a cloud in the sky. 

He had grown up muggle. Like me. I frown, not being able to comprehend how you-know-who had ended up capable of taking lives like they meant nothing. Muggle. 

Abra Kadabra. “I was so disappointed when I found out Abra kadabra wasn't an actual spell. Bet some muggle overheard a magical murder,” I comment. It must've happened a lot. Before. I mean, muggles weren’t wrong about the cauldrons and broomsticks. “Hey is seven a lucky number? Usually I ask Michelle about the wizarding world, but last time I saw her, she was busy snogging her latest boyfriend.” 

The first few years at Hogwarts, there were so many things I didn't know about the wizarding world. It must have been how my dad felt moving to England. 

Regulus sighs thoughtfully, “well, in arithmancy there are certain numbers that can be lucky. 3. 7. . .its more complicated than being straight luck. There are other factors to consider-,”

“Say no more,” I grin, “the math and charts is why I didn't take arithmancy. Care of Magical creatures was more my style.” But then frown. 

Thinking. 

His face pales, and he stops walking in the middle of the street, catching onto my implication, “you think he made seven!” 

I nod, stepping out of the way of the movement of the sidewalk. “Sevens a lucky number. And he did grow up muggle. Maybe he thought it would make them-I don't know, extra strong.”

He swallows thickly, “that-that would make the soul incredibly unstable. It's not just splitting the soul. . .the creation of a new horcrux requires the same amount of soul each time.”

I raise a brow, “it does make sense. He is-was insanely evil.”

Regulus frowns, counting off on his fingers, “Locket. Diary. Little Hangleton. . .there's four more then.”

“That's assuming he had time to finish his plan,” I counter, “on the night he was killed.” However that happened. Harry seemed like a well enough kid, even if trouble followed him like a particularly persistent wad of gum on a shoe. 

“Let's assume he did,” Regulus said, still looking shaken at the thought of you-know-who splitting his soul that many times. After all, he was more knowledgeable in the dark arts than I was. Proof you could study dark magic while still being a good person. 

“Okay. Well then we have three to go,” I say, trying to look on the bright side. “Glass half full type of deal.” 

He smiles, “I'll see the glass as half full when we've destroyed the one in Little Hangleton.”

“Then let's get going.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pretty sure the jade congs are in the british museum not the V&A. but jade congs are cool so i'll let it slide.


	14. Part II: before there was ever a boy

There's only one hotel in the entire town of Little Hangleton, which is in fact, Little. Merely a stop on the way to other towns. Less a hotel than a small bed and breakfast. We're the only ones to get off at this stop. But it could just be that it's closer to nine than it is to the time most people get out of work at. 

We check in, Regulus taking the lead, and I have to wonder if the crotchety old lady, half asleep at the counter, also thinks we're together. 

The room is exactly what you would expect to find in an old ladies home. Floral pattern on the bed. Old yellowed lace curtains. A light wooden set of drawers. It's cute. 

I lay down immediately on the bed, “we should go to the pub and talk to the locals,” I tell Regulus as he lays his things out. “I bet there's someone who knows the whole story.”

“It's a small town,” he counters, “they'll remember someone asking questions.”

“No risk no gain. Is that a saying," I bite my lip in thought, “I think I'm getting it wrong. Also I bet the thrifting here is amazing.” 

Regulus paces around the room. “We do need to find out where the Riddles lived. If it's still unoccupied. Where the Gaunts lived.”

“Your pureblood guide to the Gaunts doesn't say,” I tease. It was like Debrettes but for wizards. 

“No. It just lists Little Hangleton. The family had to sell their ancestral home in the late 1800s.” He continues to pace around the room. Wearing a path into the already matted carpet. 

“Okay,” I begin to compromise, “we can look around town tomorrow and if we don't find anything on our own we’ll go have a look around the pub.”

He doesn't say no, but frowns, halting in his pacing. “It's not a large town. I doubt it will be hard to find either place.”

I sigh, flipping through my sketchbook, jotting down notes on the horcruxes and looking through the sketches from the train. They weren't half bad, for how shaky my hand had been at times. The sketch lines had a charming effect. Most of the studies from the museum are of Regulus himself. Including one I’d charmed on the train, layering his disguise to slowly peel away, revealing what he actually looked like. 

Tomorrow, I'd also be keeping an eye out for anything to draw. I could use more practice with buildings. My landscapes were pretty good. And so were the portraits I had drawn. 

“Jane,” Regulus says, “Please get off the bed so I can transfigure it.”

I hop off, flipping back to the first few drawings. It had been a years worth of sketches, and my improvements showed. 

The queen bed splits into two twin beds with a wave of his wand. 

He tucks away his wand and continues pacing. It's actually really annoying. He'd obviously love to already be skulking about, anxious to get his hands on the horcrux. But what if there was something nasty guarding it like the other one he'd destroyed had been. 

He'd nearly died. 

“Didn't you say we'd practice dueling,” I bring up, already bracing myself to get stunned. I really was not great at dueling. 

Regulus looks over at me, suspicion in his disbelieving expression. “You’re trying to distract me.”

“Well, you're the one wearing a circle into the ground.”

He nods, acquiescing, stepping to the opposite side of the room, “where were we? Nonverbal shielding.”

I take out my wand from its holster, my mind already weaving the portego shield charm together. Regulus did not take dueling practice lightly. “Yes.” Unfortunately. 

This was all on me. I had brought it back up. 

Unlike me, Regulus casts verbally, “confundo.”

My shield charm holds. Charms had been an easy class for me. Most of the spells light, needing a flexible hand. Not like transfiguration, where I had needed more practice to get. 

Lost in my thoughts, my shield charm breaks upon his next attack. “Finestra.” Before I can summon another shield nonverbally, still halfway through the movements, Regulus casts again, not wasting a moment. “Stupefy.” 

Red light flashes from his wand and I find myself frozen, falling to the ground. 

“Ugh,” I manage, nonverbally casting the countercurse. 

“You’re in a duel Jane,” he chastises, with a smirk on his lips, “you don't stop until you've disarmed your opponent. Or stopped them.”

I frown. “I am trying. Getting stupefied isn't exactly fun.”

I take my stance once more, summoning my shield charm again. 

He casts almost immediately, “finestra.” My shield charm holds and I strengthen it, imagining the shield in front of me growing thicker. Regulus throws another spell at me, “Impedimenta.” 

Not willing to risk holding still, like a sitting duck, to see if my shield holds. I duck out of the way, his second hex missing me entirely. 

I have to do something instead of just shielding. I can't just wait for-

“Stupefy,” Regulus says, taking a step forward, closing the distance between us. 

My shield holds, and the red light hasn't died before I wordlessly cast,  _ petrificus totalus.  _

My curse dissipates harmlessly off his own shield. One I hadn't heard him cast. 

“Hey,” I cry, lowering my wand, “you cast a nonverbal!”

Regulus rolls his eyes, “don't lower your guard.  _ It's a duel.  _ If I warn you about every spell I'm going to throw at you, well, you won't learn.”

I frown. “That isn't fair.”

“Jane, it's not meant to be fair. I’m trying to make sure you can take care of yourself.”

“Okay.” I raise my wand, raising my shield charm once more. “Let's go again then.”

  
  
  
  


Little Hangleton is unassuming during the day. We grab the breakfast, tea and pastries, included with our stay and set out. 

There's one main road, and little cottages that don't look all that different from the ones at hogsmeade. Except these don't carry a air of magic, not charmingly worn in, but worn out. 

But try as we might, walking up and down the main street, exploring one way roads out of town, lined with homes and shops, we can't seem to find the Riddle house from the photograph. We take our chances on cobblestone paths, but the handsome manor home from the photograph is nowhere to be found. 

Regulus frowns, as I sit on the bus stop bench, a line between his brows as he thinks, “maybe it was torn down. He must’ve hidden it in the Gaunt’s house.” 

“Or we could just ask someone,” I counter. At least the clouds obscuring the sun made walking around all morning easier. I was sure it would be raining soon enough. And if we didn't want to waste the day, we had to ask someone.

“We can't ask just anyone,” he says, annoyed. “They could be wizards. Or death eaters. Or ask questions which leads the ministry to us. Or-”

I roll my eyes. He was always so dramatic. I doubted you-know-who was hiding behind the bushes waiting for us. Sure, he had turned out to be a former death eater in hiding, but-okay maybe we should be careful. How we ask, but we should still ask. “Well I wasn't saying tell them the whole story. I'll make something up.” I spot a middle aged woman walking down the street, holding a little girl's hand. Perfect. 

I cross the street. “Hello, Miss,” I wave her down. “I'm here with..The National Trust. I was sent here to view the Riddle Manor, do you happen to know where that is?” There. That was plausible.

She frowns, an ugly thing as if she's smell rotten uggs, “that house? It's just on the other side of that hill,” she steps into the street, pointing out the largest hill, on the other side of the small valley the town was in, with her find. “You've got to take the road the starts just over by the old shack on the edge of town. You'll know it by the weeds on the lawn. Just head straight on. Can't miss it.” 

I nod. “Thank you. Know where the caretaker lives,” I add, taking a stab in the dark. 

She shakes her head, “old man Bryce keeps to himself. Never was the same after the murders. Or so my parents say.” 

I smile thinly. We would have to slip about then. But-it didn't make sense for him to hide a horcrux in a house a muggle frequented. He-who-must-not-be-named did hate muggles after all. That made the Gaunt shack the most likely place in town. 

“Oi,” the woman asks, ignoring the girl tugging on her hand, tipping her chin over my shoulder where I imagine Regulus to be behind me. “Who's your partner?”

I do my best impression of Regulus, “Oh him? He's the accountant.” That sounded muggle and important. “It's my first...work trip.” I hope I sound a little believable. 

“Mmm,” she says, smiling in his direction. “There anyone in the picture?”

I almost choke, glancing behind me. He's leaning against the wall, looking fit in a mustard color sweater and one of his many white shirts combined with indigo denim. Well, he was-I-I stammer out a response. “Yes. In London.” Which, why would I lie! Less question, yeah right. 

I didn't like the way she was looking at him. Not at all. 

“Shame.” She nods in goodbye at me before continuing down the street. 

Regulus crosses the street to join me a minute later, looking quite cross with me. “Jane-”

I smile up at him, “You should be jazzed. I know where the Riddle house and Gaunt shack is. And even found out there's a caretaker at the Riddle house. So it's probably at the Gaunt’s. We should get a move on, scope the place out before it starts raining.”

“What did you tell her,” he asks, falling into step with me, down the way the woman had pointed. 

“Just that we’re with the national trust. Scoping out properties to buy. You're an accountant now by the way.” The path narrows, fit for bikes and pedestrians only, running behind the edge of town. 

“You should head back.” He starts with his usual martyr nonsense, ready to throw himself under the bus so to speak.

“Don't be a wanker,” I respond, cutting him off. “We'll scope out the place now. Before it rains. And then destroy it. Together.”

Regulus lets it go, instead commenting, “it's not going to rain. I checked the weather on the telly.” 

I giggle, “you're such an old man! You read the news. Watch the news.” 

He rolls his eyes, but there's a quirk to his lips I don't miss. “I like to be informed.” And mind the weather he doesn't add.

“Well, the news is wrong. It's going to rain today.” I'm sure of it. 

The shack is...well a shack. 

“Wizards really lived here,” I whisper, looking around, but there's no one but us. It's like something out of a shanty town. Thin wooden planks with cracks I can see even from our spot along the path. Regulus had cast a disillusionment charm over us. But I still don't want to risk making too much noise. 

It looks like a depressing place to grow up. With plants having started to overrun the structure. One of the windows was boarded up. The other one was shattered. It looked like decades had past since someone had been inside. 

“Apparently,” Regulus says. 

“Can muggles see it like we do? Or is it like Diagon Alley?”

He shakes his head. “they can see it all right. But if they get too close there's some spellwork that makes muggles leave. Like at Hogwarts if any muggle ventures too close.”

It didn't look like it was housing something like the inferi. But looks could be deceiving. And it would be better not to underestimate one of the darkest wizards in history. “We could just fiendfyre the whole place,” I offer. “That was if there is some. . .security measures. . .”

He shakes his head, eyes narrowed as he watches. “We have to be sure there really is a horcrux inside.”

Outloud, I grimly state, “so we have to go inside.” 

“You don't have to,” he says, looking down at me. 

“What did I say about not being a wanker,” I reply, meeting his gaze evenly, arching a brow. 

Regulus grins, barking out a wild laugh. “Oh Jane, I’m incredibly lucky to know you. Even if I don't deserve you at all.”

What a dramatic man. 

His grin is infectious, having me smile in seconds. “So we’ll come back?”

He nods, as drops of rain start falling, wetting my hair. 

It's instinct that has me raising my wand, wordlessly casting  _ impervious, _ when I see him flinch as drops land on his head. Water. “Told you it would rain,” I say with a soft smile. 

Regulus squeezes his eyes shut, taking a deep breath. “You should've taken divination. You would've been brilliant.”

“Isn't divination rubbish though,” I ask, my spell never wavering for a second. “all that seeing the future nonsense. Professor Trelawney always seemed like she was making things up from what Tonks told me. I asked her since she was older what classes she recommended at the end of 2nd.” 

There's a hint of a smile on his lips, even as he pulls the sleeves of his sweater over his hands, when he responds, “seers are rare. Prophecies even more so. But if you have the intuition for it, you can train your third eye, attune it in a manner of speaking. Incredibly useful in metallurgy, finance, potions making.” 

“Knowing when it's going to rain,” I add, unable to look away from him despite the warmth in my chest.

“Yes,” he says softly, looking down at his shoes. Loafers. 

“How'd you learn so much about magic anyway,” I ask, hopefully distracting him from the rain. Keeping his mind off it. 

With a half hearted smirk, he quips, “I read.” Then Regulus holds out his arm for me. “Let's get out of this rain shall we?” There's no missing the sickly look on his face. 

We apparate back to the front step of the little bed and breakfast. The eave keeps the rain off us while I cast the water repelling charm again. Regulus sways, unsteady on his feet. Taking long and deliberate breathes. He's not okay by a long shot. 

It's only because I haven't let go of his arm that I feel the tremor wracking his body. 

Somehow, we make it back to our room. I don't let go of him until he's inside, worried. And I know there's nothing I can really do to make him okay, except maybe a draught of peace-no. That would take too long to brew, a calming draught would be quicker and just as effective. 

And when I do let go, once we've stepped inside, Regulus makes a bee-line for the tiny bathroom, where I can hear him vom because of the thin walls. 

I turn the electric kettle on. Camomile was also useful, in case he didn't go for the draught. Then set to work, fetching my potions kit from my bag. I have to drag my cauldron out from the bag, wondering how on earth I'd managed to shove it inside in the first place, before thanking my past self for bringing along my potions kit. And maybe it was time to invest in a traveling cauldron. 

Or just shrink this one when I place it back inside. 

I mince the crocodile heart, before boiling it down into a fine sauce, crushing any bits of leftover muscle and tendons with my stirring rod. This step was the most important. Any muscle or tendon leftover would taint the rest of the draught, weakening its effects. Once I'm satisfied, I add aloe vera and let the solution simmer. 

I add the camomile to the kettle, letting it steep. Adding a generous portion of honey. “Regulus,” I call out, fighting the urge to stir the solution and hurry up the process. 

I wanted it to turn white already. There were still bits of red colour to the solution.

He doesn't answer, but I hear the toilet flush which is better than nothing. 

The solution simmers into a beautiful moonstone white colour and I know it's time to add the crushed peppermint, the sprigs broken just enough to infuse the mixture. I didn't want too much peppermint after all. Just a hint. 

The moment the peppermint enters the cauldron, the mixture takes on a cherry red colour, and I let the cauldron cool. By the time it's cooled down enough to be strained, it'll be done infusing. 

I pour Regulus a cuppa camomile, and leave the cauldron alone. It was the hardest lesson to learn in potions. To stop messing with one's brewing potion. I had ruined my fair share of potions by babysitting them too much. 

Then, I approached the door to the bathroom, left open. I don't want to intrude and make things worse. “Regulus,” I call out again, “I gotta cuppa camomile if you're feeling up to it.” He doesn’t say no. So I step inside the cramped bathroom.

He’s sitting on the floor, back against the wall, his breathing labored. Eyes shut. 

I don’t say anything: just set the cup down next to him and leave him to himself. I still have a potion to finish. 

It’s not as cool as I would like, but I strain the mixture all the same, passing it through my sieve before adding the chopped lavender which turns the entire draught into a lovely blue shade, just this side of purple. The color of the summer sky, baby blue. I’m sure not to mix it too many times clockwise, as I bring it back up to a simmer. “You alright in there,” I call out to him, tired of the silence. And wanting to somehow make everything better, but I was at a loss of what to do. It wasn’t like I could just wave my wand and make him feel better. 

“No,” he deadpans, which I take as a good sign. 

It doesn’t take long before it simmers, the blue hue deepening. 

Still hot, I pour out a bit into a cup before storing the rest in a bottle in case I need more later. It would keep for quite a long time.

“Regulus,” I say, stepping inside, taking a seat next to him, leaving plenty of space between us. He’s nursing the cuppa tea, still taking deep breaths, slowly inhaling and exhaling. “I made you a calming draught, if you want it. I know you said you weren’t a big fan but I made it anyway just in case.” He’s at least opened his eyes, even with the gleam of sweat on his forehead, he still manages to look less weary than he had a few minutes ago. 

Regulus meets my gaze, a hollow look in his eyes. “I don’t deserve you.”

I shrug, wrapping my arms around my knees, “don’t say that. You’re my friend. I hate seeing you like this. So if I can do anything to help I will.” 

He drowns the sleeping draught, careful not to touch my hand as he takes the cup from my hand. “You should go explore,” he says softly, tired, “didn’t you say you wanted to go into the charity shops here. Don’t waste the entire evening on my account.” I get the hint, for once. He doesn’t want me to see him like this. 

Still, I frown, knowing I’ll just be worrying about him the entire time. “Okay,” I finally say, “Imma go head down to the pub and get something to eat. I’m really in the mood for toast and baked beans for some reason.” I don’t reach for his arm even though I want to. “I’ll be back in a bit.” And reluctantly I do leave. 

The pub is pretty empty, and the food’s only all right. I spend most of the time drawing. The main street of the village, the interior of the pub, focusing on getting into the minute detail. The cracks and stains in the wooden floor. The old man who’s muttering to himself, nursing a lager. 

The staticy telly in the corner from a few years before I was born like as not. 

The waitress is nice, all smiles, sitting her friends in one of the corner booths and sort of rushing off to hang out with them during work. That would’ve probably been me if I hadn’t gone to hogwarts, back in Blackpool. 

I’m busy sketching Michelle from memory, an afternoon that Penelope hadn’t been busy snogging her now ex boyfriend but studying on the grounds with us. I take care to draw Penelope’s short bob of black hair. It’s her monolid eyes that take me the most time to get right. I need more practice with some features. Careful to keep it realistic, when a bloke sits down across from me. 

“Mind if I take this seat,” he asks, all freckles and a mop top of blonde hair. 

I’ve been spending way too much time with Regulus, because my suspicion immediately goes up, and I’m very aware of the wand in my bag. One of my hands reaching discreetly for it. Since he’s already sat down I shrug, “well, not like you haven’t sat down already.”

He laughs. “Haven’t seen you around here before.”

“Just passing through,” I reply, hand closing around my wand, I slip it into my sleeve. Odds were, he wasn’t a wizard at all, and I was just being paranoid. But so close to destroying a horcrux, I’m not willing to risk it. “Work.”

“Ah,” he grins, “hopefully it’ll be a long stay?” He sounds hopeful, and I realize I’ve misread the situation entirely. 

“I don’t think it will be. Nearly done. ‘S not a large town.” I place my empty plate far from me, ready to leave, as heat rises to my cheeks. 

“Believe me, I know. Gotta go to Hangleton proper to do anything fun around here,” he complains, before spying the sketches, my sketchbook still lying open. Thankfully not on a charmed drawing. “You’re brilliant at drawing. Think you’d want to draw me some time.” He poses, like one of the models on the cover of witches weekly. 

Now I really am blushing, “uh. . .don’t think so. Work. Got me really busy. And I’ll be leaving soon anyway.” I shove my sketchbook into my bag, and get up. “But it was nice meeting you.” Because I was always polite. 

“What’s your name love?” He makes no move to follow me, so there’s that. 

“You go first,” I challenge. 

“Jamie.”

I lie, “Penelope.” And then leave, rushing back to my hotel room. The skies cleared up some, but there’s still a light rain shower. Nothing to stop business in its tracks. Hopefully it’s over by tonight so we can destroy it as soon as possible. 

Regulus is laying in bed with a heavy lidded look to his eyes when I get back in. The effects of the calming draught. 

“I’m back,” I tell him. “You feeling better.”

He shrugs, sitting up, “like utter shit actually. I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“You don’t have to keep apologizing,” I state, kicking my shoes off and opening up my sketchbook once more, wanting to finish my latest drawing. “I get that you’ve-well you’ve obviously been affected by the whole almost dying thing and if inferi are anything like zombies then I’m not surprised.” 

He snorts. “I would take zombies over inferi any day. Zombies are stupid and slow.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I reply, getting to work on Michelle’s curly hair. She woke up just to style it, making sure the curls were well formed and not frizzy. 

“I. . .uh, got something for you,” Regulus says, “I know that, well, you’re birthday’s long passed, but I didn’t get you anything and I just thought, here.” He hands me a black box. The same box he’d picked up from Grimmauld Place along with the book on the Gaunts. 

I raise my brows, wondering what it could be. I open the box. 

Inside there’s a lovely old watch, with a white dragonhide band. The timepiece itself is gold, with a white background and little gold hour marks. The Black family crest is etched into the back. 

“I know it’s not. . .it’s the best I could do on a short notice,” Regulus explains, running a hand through his hair as he faces me, “But it’s-it still works perfectly.” Easily worth more than everything I owe combined and he’s apologizing for it. 

I launch myself at him, wrapping my arms around him, and hugging him. “It’s perfect. Thank you so much!” 

“Jane,” he yelps, tensing up in my arms. 

“Oh, right,” my face burns as I left him go as quickly as I’d hugged him, “sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Regulus says, smoothing out his wrinkled shirt. “Just. . .just let me know when you want to hug me first. So I can brace myself,” he teases. 

“You’re opening yourself up to a load of hugs, you know that,” I warn. 

He smiles, shrugging, “oh. . .when you press the crown it shows the night sky. With the constellations of the living Black family members. Or well, you living family members in your case. I’m not sure what will appear for you.”

I shrug, not caring very much. Touched by the fact he’d remembered I hadn’t gotten a watch for my 17th, that he was giving me one of his family’s watches. “Can you help me with it?”

He nods, his touch light as he fastens the band around my wrist, and I feel my skin heat up wherever he so much as brushes. My heart flutters in my chest, and I do my damn best to ignore it. 

“Happy 17th Jane.”

“I’m actually almost 18,” I say smuggly. 

Regulus rolls his eyes with a laugh. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jane finally learning to have an ounce of self preservation. better late than never


	15. Part II: family heirlooms

It’s still dark when we arrive at the Gaunt’s shack. 

The world was still wet from the rain earlier, or last night. As we trudge through the streets, passing the worn gate that leads into the Gaunt property, Regulus’ wand is already drawn, a grim determined look to his features. 

I draw my own wand, holding it steady, ready to cast if the need arises. There's no one out. The silence of the late night reigning supreme. I glance around, as if expecting a specter to appear, with the look of the place, right out of the Texas chainsaw massacre. I swallow down the terror creeping up my spine. And follow him onto the property, the weeds have long overrun any semblance of a garden. 

We reach the door after a few steps. It's not a large property. I look up at him, standing in front of the door. Waiting for his cue. 

He whispers, “alohomora.” The door opens with a loud creak. The hinges rusted. Regulus looks over at me. “Shall we?”

I nod.

He steps through the door first; I can see the slight glimmer of a shield charm in front of him. I watch as he goes into the dark home, before he's swallowed up by the shadows. 

I take a deep breath, and follow, summoning my own shield charm. And I step through the door. 

I stagger, as soon as I step inside the shack, hit by a wave of misery and despair. Whoever lives here last was not happy. Not even close. But it's not just one person's miserable existence, it's multiple layered over each other. There's the smell of wet rot in the air. The cold night chill seeps in through the thin walls. 

If the shack wasn't magic, I doubt it would still be standing. 

I stand up, and realize I can't hear or see anything inside. Not even Regulus. He would've helped me up. I can't even see the wand I feel in my hand, held up in front of me. 

Like cave darkness. 

I can't see the outline of my hand. 

“Regulus,” I whisper, but the sound is swallowed up by the house. Protective enchantments. I try a “lumos,” next. But my wand doesn't catch light. Not a spark. It's a gut wrenching blow to my confidence, not being able to cast. The fear slips into my heart like a shard of ice.

We’ll have to do this in the dark. On our own. 

I take a deep breath, tightening my hold on my wand, not willing to risk losing it here. 

With my other hand, I try to feel my way around the room, mentally refusing to think the worst. If this was a protective ward, it was a trap. If I started thinking about monsters I'd never stop. 

Now, where would I hide a horcrux?

I stumble about slowly. 

“Accio ring,” I try, figuring I had nothing to lose. I don't feel the usual magic rush through the wand. I can't help the panic I feel. Maybe it's not the shack. 

Maybe it's me.

Maybe I've lost my magic. 

No. Don't think like that.

But then- _ trap. _

I snap out of it, taking a deep breath. 

There was no way I would find the horcrux if I couldn't see or cast or find Regulus. I would have to somehow cast a stronger spell to stop any other spells. I just had to hope this was a spell and not some clever rune wards. 

I take my time. Forcing myself to calm down. I couldn't risk the shack swallowing up my spell, so I'd have to do a nonverbal. 

In my mind's eye, I imagine myself weaving the spell, my wand hand performing the motion I had perfected in charms. And then, holding the words, the spell in the roof of my mouth,  _ finite incantatem.  _ I cast.

This time, golden light springs out from the end of my wand, spreading through the shack, breaking through the darkness, until it's merely twilight hours. The moon and stars casting dark shadows in the room. 

Regulus is on the other side of the shack, feeling around on the floor for his wand. 

Finally I'm able to cast. “ _ Lumos minor _ ,” I whisper softly. 

Regulus grabs his wand off the floor, not one meter next to him, and stands up. 

“Do you think there's other safeguards,” I venture to ask, summoning another shield charm. 

He nods, looking shaken. 

It's only then that I notice the tears running down my cheeks. I wipe them with the back of my hand. I don't remember starting to cry. 

“There's something dark here,” he whispers back, “I can sense the horcrux. We're close.” 

I nod, glancing around the room. Unsure what the horcrux would look like. The furniture is rotted. Covered with grime and dust. It's Grimmauld Place time's a thousand. Even at its peak, when people lived here, I doubt that the Gaunt’s shack was close to a nice place to live. It looks a lot like the photos of London during the blitz. 

Nothing cries out, where a megalomaniac would hide a bit of his oh so precious soul. 

Regulus starts knocking things about, levitating drawers and emptying them out. 

I walk towards the sole room in the shack, hesitating at the doorway. What once was the door is knocked off its hinges, lying on the floor. I remember the first protective spell, and hold my breath as I step inside. 

Nothing happens. 

The darkness doesn't return. 

The bedroom is in the best shape. 

It's nothing more than an old wooden chest and a mattress. The blanket is moth eaten. It could have been any colour originally. 

I open the chest with a quick, “alohomora.” It springs open, the led falling all the way back. The springs worn away to dust. 

Inside is a very fancy black velvet cushion with a golden ring. A black stone in the shape of a diamond in its center. Like a whisper against the shell of my ear, I hear it calling to me. An overwhelming urge to slip the ring onto my hand seizes my mind. 

Before I know it, I've crossed the room. Everything else grows distant, gets shoved to the back of my mind. I'm leaning down to the chest, hand outstretched. 

Regulus hand closes around my wrist, jolting me out of my state, stopping my hand centimeters from the ring. “Don't touch the horcrux,” he states, panic in his silver eyes, gripping my wrist firmly. He's so close, I can feel his body heat in the chill of the room behind me. Stagnant air making the room smell like mildew. 

My eyes widen, wondering why I had even wanted to wear the ring in the first place. A trick. Another protective spell. “So now we destroy it,” I utter, standing up. 

Regulus nods, letting my wrist go.“Fiendfyre is hard to control.Stand back and be ready to bolt if it escapes.”

I take a step back, letting him cast the cursed fire. 

There are no traces of the earlier state he had been in, all anxious and sick. His lips are set into a straight edge, a calm and collected look upon his fine features as he calls forth fiendfyre from his wand, setting the entire chest ablaze. The flames dance with maniac energy, each flame like a mouth, eating up everything in its path. Fiendfyre, also known as greek fire since it was invented by a dark greek wizard in ancient greece. We had learned about it during history class at school. But since it was dark magic, and had been banned by the ministry in the 17th century after a wizard had let loose fiendfyre on London, burning even Westminster down.

Regulus doesn't wave, keeping the living red flames, brighter than any conjured magic, angry red things, under control as they break through the chest and begin to consume the ring. 

A noxious odor fills the air, as blood, a black brackish thing, spills forth even through the flames. 

I take another step back, as the blood animates, a little face of horror, hands reach out of the flames as it screams. As it does like any other soul would. 

My stomach churns, bile rising in my throat. 

Regulus doesn't step back, even as the blood reaches his shoes, staining the worn leather. He maintains control of the flames, letting them burn down the horcrux to ash, before he enunciates the ceasing charm firmly.

The bright red flames roar one last time, before they vanish. Leaving a pile of black dust. And the ring glittering like a diamond in the rough. The black stone cracked in half. 

I frown, leaning forward. “Is it done? Shouldn't it be ash?” 

Regulus shrugs. “They are unpredictable. I never claimed to be an expert. I'm not sure there's even enough known about horcruxes to be an expert on.” He points his wand at the ring nonetheless, levitating the object in the air. It's a grand thing. Like one toffs might wear on their little finger. 

“Do you think it's a family heirloom,” I ask, not really aimed at anyone, thinking. “A Gaunt one? I mean they were purebloods even if they ended up...here.” I look around the room. For all their so-called superiority, they'd lived terribly. Not that I felt particularly bad about a family that probably didn't take in their half blood nephew for having a muggle father. “Do you think you-know-who wouldn't have. . .you know if he'd grown up with his family?”

Regulus gives me the most disbelieving side eye. “Not that what ifs matter, but I don't think the Gaunts would have been much of a step up. Convicted muggle haters.”

I should ask around for the gossip, there's bound to be one old lady living who knows the story better than the papers. 

He places the ring inside a stone box. 

And just like that, one horcrux down. Three to go. Not that we knew what the other horcruxes were, but, glass half full. 

“Do you think they kicked her out? Merope. For marrying a muggle,” I ask, feeling an overwhelming wave of sadness, or maybe it was just the adrenalin leaving my system, that had me crashing. 

“Probably.” Regulus admits. “she wouldn't be the first witch to be disinherited from a pureblood family for running off with a muggle.”

My lip trembles, tears burning in my eyes even as I try to blink them away. “And then Riddle abandoned her.” I wipe away the tears and I really don't know why I'm feeling this bloody awful. It's not like I knew this woman. Or really know the details. “Sorry, I don't know what's come over me all of a sudden.”

He steps closer to me, putting away his wand and sliding the box into his trousers. “Jane,” he says incredibly gently. 

I sniffle, trying to calm down. Wanting nothing more than to stop crying. 

“Jane,” Regulus says, standing in front of me, so close I could see every fine scar that crossed his features. “You're in shock. You've just been exposed to incredibly dark magic. It's affecting you.”

“Oh,” I say in a small voice, still choked up with emotion. With this heavy pang in my chest. 

He lifts his hand up, reaching for my cheek, but stops halfway, his hand in midair. Hesitating. 

My eyes meet his. As I wipe my cheeks, feeling incredibly silly for feeling this way when we’ve just destroyed a horcrux. We should be celebrating. 

Regulus places his hand on my chip, tipping my face up to his, his touch ghosting over my skin. “It's alright Jane. You're going to be okay,” he says softly. 

But instead of helping me calm down, I feel whatever little hold I had on whatever emotions are bubbling up snap, and I sob. A little too emotional to not cry at his words. But at least they aren't sad tears anymore. “Sorry,” I mumble again. 

Stiffly, Regulus wraps his arms around me, keeping as much distance as he can manage. It makes for an incredibly awkward hug. But-but I know he means well and I know him and don't hold the distance against him. He has his issues, and still is trying. 

For me. 

Warmth spreads under my skin. 

I hug him back, firmly, burrowing my face against his chest, and feeling the earth start to solidify under my feet. Finally, I feel myself start to calm, slowly. 

It was so much faster to get worked up than calm down. 

Regulus doesn't push me away. 

He lets me lean into him, breathing in his scent of freshly starched shirts and an earthy scent akin to cedar and white musk. I hadn't realized how shaken the experience had made me. But maybe it was more that I didn't process it when it was happening. 

He strokes the side of my head tenderly, whispering against my ear, “it's alright. you're alright.” 

I relax in his hold, until my tears dry up. Until I don't feel as if I'll burst into tears at the slightest provocation. My heart beat growing steady. 

With Regulus, I know that I am safe. 

It feels like a small eternity before I feel steady enough to pull away. “You didn't have to,” I comment softly, the night coming to an end outside. The dark sky giving way to a deep blue, signaling the sunrise. “I would've been fine after a good cry.” 

There's a dusting of pink in his cheekbones, when he replies, “I don't mind.”

“Except that you do,” I point out. He'd mentioned it to me on more than one occasion. And you don't wear long sleeves during the hottest days of the summer because you want to. You don't choose to wear gloves just because. 

Even if he had given up wearing them upon leaving the relative safety of Blackpool.

“I don't mind if it's you,” he amends, before brushing past me, leading us out of the Gaunt’s shack. 

  
  


We arrive back to our room as the sky is lightening. The sun, like an egg yolk spilling in the sky. 

And Kreacher is standing still as a statue in the middle of the room. If I had to guess, he'd frozen in the same spot he'd appeared in. And he doesn't hesitate to frown deeply at me, but it is a step up from being called filth. And Regulus likes him so he can't be all bad. 

Just repeating blood purity nonsense he'd learned. 

“Kreacher,” he greets, taking a seat in the sole chair in the room. 

“Master Regulus,” Kreacher says brightening now that his attention was on the wizard in front of me. “Kreacher has brought the prophets like master Regulus asked Kreacher to.” A stack of wrinkled papers fall on the ground, appearing by magic. “Now is Kreacher allowed to leave this terrible terrible place filled with  _ muggles.”  _ He whispers the last bit, glancing around with a sneer on his already wrinkled face. 

“Muggles aren't terrible,” Regulus casually says, picking up the papers by hand. “But yes. I can't imagine getting rid of years of dust and doxies is easy.”

“You are too kind master Regulus,” Kreaher beams, puffing up his chest, “Kreaher will prevail and return the house to its former glory!” And with a crack, he disappears. 

I snort at the entire exchange. And decide getting the complimentary breakfast before I take a nap, not having gotten a wink of sleep last night, will make me feel loads better. 

“I'm going to pop down to the pantry,” I tell Regulus, who is already nose deep in newspapers, scrunching up his brows as he reads. “Want anything.”

“Mm,” he nods and I assume that means yes. 

I load up on scones, little chocolate muffins, and hot cross buns that weren't hot at all before deciding getting some fruit and cheese wouldn't be a terrible idea. It's what I imagine a very french breakfast to be. It was more than what the hotel in London had given us so I certainly wasn't complaining. 

Hard to complain about grapes and peaches.

“Sweetie,” the old lady asks as I walk by her desk. She was more than likely the owner. “I heard you were asking after the old Riddle manor. What was your name again?”

I hadn't given it when we checked in. “Small town,” I say with a tight smile. Feeling drained. 

“Extremely. My son moved to Leeds to find work,” she complains.

“Oh,” I comment, opening up, “I know the feeling. There was nothing for me back home. So I had to go to London.” Or planned to anyway. “It's Penelope by the way.” I had to start using a different alias. Using the same one would probably leave a trail.

“Can't imagine what the National Trust would want with the Riddle Manor,” the old woman sighs, “it was a lovely house back in the day. Even if the Riddles were the sort of toffs Thatcher would've loved.” She frowns deeply. “Now me, I'm no green party of anything like the french but it does seem we've taken a step back as a country.”

I nod, agreeing with her. I knew dad didn't like Thatcher. But I probably knew more about Minister Fudge than I did about the current state of UK politics. “You lived here when the Riddles did?” I manage to stifle the excitement from my voice. 

She nods, patting the chair by her. 

I take a seat, balancing the plate of food for me and Regulus on my legs. 

“The son was a right looker. Tall, dark and handsome. Like your coworker fellow. Mean though. Always looking down their nose at us working folks. It was the talk of the town when he ran off when the Gaunt girl,” she says, leaning in, her tone coloring the story perfectly. “See, if the riddles were well off. . .the Gaunts were, well  _ poor.  _ And we might have tried to help if they-they had their pride. The old man M-Mark. . .no that wasn’t it. M something. . .he whacked the priest when he came round to see if there was anything the town could do to help.” She bites her cheek, reminiscing. “Well the boy ran off with the Gaunt girl, a mousy little thing. Married her from what we heard, and ran off to London. But when he returned. He returned alone,” she leans in closer, “claimed to have been taken in. Made a fool off by that poor girl.” She shakes her head, clucking, “as if! He wanted with her and then got cold feet. Men!” She rounds on me, “men are all the same sweetie. Don’t be fooled by them.” 

She reminds me of my grandmother in Argentina. I nod quickly, hoping she resumes her story. 

The old woman shrugs, getting up, “the Gaunt girl never came back. Better that way. Those times. . .poor girl would’ve never lived it down in a town like this.”

“Well I should get going,” I lie, getting up to, “got a bunch of paperwork to do.” Maybe I should’ve taken muggle studies. I had no clue what muggle jobs consisted of. Other than my parent’s chip shop. 

She nods, getting back to her crossword. 

When I get back to the room, Regulus has finished reading the stack of prophets Kreacher had dropped off. “Hogwarts is hosting the triwizard contest,” he says rolling his eyes. “Dumbledore’s a complete nutter if he thinks that’ll end well.” 

“I’ve bought bread, fruit, and cheese,” I say, setting the plate on the nightstand, before finding a big jumper to pull over my head. A big old stripped one that was still stained red from a tie dye attempt a few summers ago now. “Anything else interesting?” 

He shrugs, grabbing a scone and handing me a cuppa, “England’s set to play Transylvania next week.” 

“Quidditch,” I ask, feeling sleepy. 

“Quidditch world cup,” he says nonchalantly, “there’s a huge world cup every four years. Doubt England will make it. The teams rubbish. Bulgaria are the favorites. Their seeker’s the youngest player in the league.” It’s adorable when he rambles in delight, and I can’t help but find myself caring for once about quidditch. “Of course I’d be over the bloody moon if England won, but they won’t. Scotland got knocked out of the tournament last week, lost by fifteen points!”

I frown, “Transylvania isn’t a country.”

Regulus shakes his head, laughing, “the wizarding world isn’t exactly the same as the muggle one. The ottoman empire’s still alive and well in the magical community. The match between Wales and Uganda could go either way. Quidditch isn’t as big in Uganda as it is in Wales. But they’ve got quite a few players from the european league.” 

I wasn’t even aware there was more than one quidditch league. 

“And the triwizard competition is?” I didn’t feel ashamed about not knowing what things are in the wizarding world. Not with Regulus. And I certainly don’t feel some type of way about having to ask for clarification. 

“It’s,” Regulus says, sipping his tea, “a competition between the wizarding schools of europe. The largest ones. Hogwarts. Drumstrang. Beauxbatons. It was banned because of how many students perished or got injured for life during the competition.” 

Of course it was extremely dangerous. 

“Everything in the wizarding world is as dangerous as it is magical,” I sigh. 

“Can’t have the good without the bad.” He smirks. “Oh, and a letter came for you, by owl post.”

“You dick,” I cry out, “why didn’t you lead with that!”

Regulus barks out a laugh, head leaning back, a complete 180 from yesterday. I’m glad to see it. 

He hands me the letter. 

I don’t waste time tearing into it. It’s from Penelope. 

_ Dear Jane.  _

_ Won’t lie. I’m disappointed you won’t be rooming with me. I could use a friend out here. Between work and work I feel as though I haven’t seen ANY of the city. My coworkers are okay, and we talk during work but we are not friends. Unfortunately. I wish I had your ease with people.  _

_ Now, for the reason I wrote you back even though my hand is cramped. The shop next to the workshop needs someone to redo their menu signs. I pulled a Jane and said I knew a good artist. Showed them the painting you made of the whomping willow, and they agreed.  _

_ Don’t be mad, I negotiated the price in your absence. How does 40 galleons sound? If it's too low, TELL ME. If it’s good, I’ll send you the information.  _

_ Penelope Clearwater.  _

I look up at Regulus, “I think I got a job?”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one horcrux down. . .a few more to go. i didn't make the ring too difficult to get to but i also think teenage tom riddle wasn't as careful as he was later on with the cave. actually if u think about it. tom riddle was only good about hiding the locket. i mean, he just left his diary laying around with the malfoys. . .smh tom


	16. Part II: nesting

It’s Kreacher who ends up taking the letter for lack of an owl or an owl post shop nearby. 

And then I don’t know anything for hours, crashing on top of the covers, tired all the way to my bones. Not having slept all night. Having destroyed a horcrux. 

By the time I wake up, the sun is setting again. We’ll be leaving soon. I know that much, now that we’ve finished our business in Little Hangleton. 

I pack my belongings up; the shoes I’d kicked off and left next to my bed; the sweaters strewn about the room; the pile of books on the floor by my side of the room, mostly from the second hand shop in diagon alley. My side was homey, while Regulus had kept his neat. 

He jolts out of sleep, sitting straight up and I know he’s had a nightmare. But he just quietly rubs the sleep from his eyes, taking deep breaths. 

“Any clue where the next one might be,” I ask him. “I mean the diary seems kind of obvious if you consider he was a teenager. . .and the ring’s from his family, but,” I trail off. Nothing else in the research we’d done thus far pointed to another horcrux. The others were probably made when he was older, and smarter. Which meant it would be harder for us. 

“Actually,” Regulus says, running a hand through his hair, smoothing it out, “I have an idea of sorts. Well, a guess really, but it is a good guess.”

“You are brilliant,” I comment. He’d controlled the fiendfyre easily last night, a spell notorious for its uncontrollable nature.

He blushes, but still manages to smirk, “Yes. I know.”

“So what’s your guess then?” I tend my bed by hand, the muggle way. 

Regulus sets about the room, finding a clean shirt and trousers, “there’s. . .well you know how I told you my cousin Bella was a big you-know-who supporter?”

“Is this the cousin that married Mr. Malfoy,” I ask him, not having kept track of which cousin had done what nasty thing. 

“No,” he shakes his head, stepping into the bathroom to change, “that was Cissa. Bella is-was a death eater. In azkaban now from what I heard. Tortured the Aurors Longbottom.”

I choke at this new information. Maybe I should have asked for more information about his entire evil family background. “I’m sorry did you just say tortured,” I squeak, thinking of the pudgy boy who was always losing his toad and had an awful voice for choir. 

“Yes,” Regulus says, stepping out of the bathroom, still finishing buttoning up his shirt. “She was very enthusiastic about the whole murder and torture thing.”

“As opposed to your feeling bad about it,” I ask cruelly, for my own sake, as I take in this new information.

His face goes white as bone as he splutters, except, I hadn’t said anything that wasn’t true. “Yes. . .well. . .I think the fact that my family was excited about me joining a terrorist cult says everything you need to know. Sirius was-is the. . .he was the best one of us. Fought against you-know-who, even if the ministry blames him for the Potters. I also had a cousin, Andromeda who ran off with a muggleborn. Got blasted off the family tree and disinherited.”

“Blasted off from where?”

He meets my gaze, embarrassed, “the family tree. It’s in Grimmauld Place. I’ll show you when we get there.”

“Why are we going back there,” I ask, not looking forward to sleeping among cobwebs and dust and those awful taxidermied house elf heads. 

“Part of my guess,” he finally explains, “Bella, she was his most loyal and devoted follower. But. . she had her moments, gloating. And I have been pouring back over my memories. . .trying to remember if I missed anything. And it must’ve been, there was a nasty attack on a muggle village out by Oxford in the mid 70s. Bella let slip she was a death eater then, at our weekly family dinner. And she had this,” he frowns, clearly trying to remember things clearly, “this cup, chalice. I just remember finding it strange that there was a badger on it. The Blacks have been in slytherin for generations. And the locket, from the cave, makes sense now that we found out about the Gaunts, they were descended from Slytherin and the locket once belonged to Salazar Slytherin himself.” 

“So it ties into the close connection,” I finish, before adding, “Voldemort was a narcissist on top of the whole mass murder thing.” 

Regulus flinches at the name. Like most wizards. “It appears so. But he’s also arrogant. He must have given her the cup for safe keeping. And I believe it was a horcrux when she received it because I think it wasn’t just an ordinary chalice.” 

“It’s Helga Hufflepuff’s cup isn’t it,” I frown, thinking back on the time I skimmed through Hogwarts a History, wanting to learn everything there was to know about Hufflepuff, my house. “Do you think that means the last two have a connection to Ravenclaw and Gryfindorr?”

He nods. “But for now the cup. Bella would’ve stashed it in the safest place known to wizarding kind.”

I remember him mentioning fines and trials in connection to death eaters, once. “Gringotts. You’re talking about gringotts aren’t you.”

“Yes.”

“Please tell me you somehow have access to her vault,” I say with a frown. That was one place I wouldn’t just be able to ask and talk my way into. 

“I have access to her vault,” he deadpans. 

“Really!”

“No,” he says, shaking his head with a bewildered look on his face, “why would you think I do?”

“You just said-you’re taking the piss aren’t you,” I realize, rolling my eyes. 

He laughs, a spark of madness in his eyes. 

“So what, we’re just going to break into the most secure bank in the world? Steal from the goblins like wizards have been stealing from them for years?”

Regulus nods, “we’ll figure it out. Once we’re back in London. We’ll make Grimmauld Place our base.”

I nod, still stuck on the new puzzle at hand. How could we break into Gringotts? I’d never been down to the vaults before. Only been inside the main wizarding bank to exchange muggle currency into galleons and sickles. 

Leandra was the one who’d interned at Gringotts.

Leandra! 

I could ask Leandra about all she’d seen and learned while at Gringotts. It could come in handy. Might even hold the key into breaking into the bank. Into the vaults.

“How do you open the vaults,” I ask Regulus as he finishes packing with a wave of his wand. 

“There’s a key,” he explains. “Bella would’ve used the Lestrange’s vault.”

“Hm.” It was hard to imagine someone-the woman who’d tortured Neville Longbottom’s parents as having been a wife. Someone’s cousin. She’d had loved ones and been loved and still gone out into the night and destroyed lives. 

“-each vault has a key,” he continues, “I think Cissa might’ve had a copy to the Lestrange vault, but I’m not sure. Before I-when I was starting to have doubts about being a. . .well a-a death eater, Bella had become an unrecognizable person from the woman who’d been my cousin. She wasn’t as close to her sister as she’d once’d been. They used to. . .back before Andromeda was blasted off the family tree, they’d been as close as siblings could be,” he says with longing in his voice. The same longing I’d once had for a brother or sister. 

Which didn’t make sense considering he  _ did _ have a brother. 

I frown, remembering the file on Sirius Black that I had in my sketchbook. “So she most likely doesn’t have a spare,” I note, realizing that would be a waste of time, and worse, his cousin would most definitely recognize him even if he had brown hair and charmed his nose crooked. “Okay, we’ll sleep on it. But, I almost forgot, I have your brothers file, you know, since you think he’s innocent.” I myself wasn’t sure what to think. Regulus was going to be biased for his brother, but then again, wasn’t I also here, trusting a former death eater? 

It was all knots and tangles if I thought about it rationally. 

But it made sense in my gut. 

The trust was there, and Regulus wouldn’t hurt me. Any more than Leandra or Michelle would. 

His eyes widen, “you-when. . .back at the ministry. Jane, you shouldn’t have!” Regulus gets all worked up like a disgruntled cat. I can almost see the gears turning in his mind, imaging all the worst possible outcomes of what could have happened if I’d been caught. Instead I’d run into Tonks. 

I shrug, “calm down Regulus,” I say instead, grabbing the slim file. “Just thank me like a normal person.” 

He frowns, but takes the file. 

If anyone could find a way to exonerate Sirius Black, it would be Regulus. 

“Are we taking the coach down to London?”

“No,” Regulus says, putting the file away. “We’ll take a coach up to Glasgow. Or that’s what the tickets’ll say. At a random stop we’ll get off and apparate into Grimmauld Place.”

“Getting confident with our apparition are we,” I grin. 

He ignores me. 

  
  


It’s too dark for me to draw the passing landscape for once. And I’ve just woken up. I can hardly take a nap. 

I pen another letter to Leandra, asking her about Gringotts. It’s hard to do without not explaining my sudden interest. I feel sneaky. Sly. Slimy. Tricking my own friend. I scratch out the letter. 

_ Leandra,  _

_ I’m starting to think even working at Gringotts would be better than working in the ministry. Remind me again why it’s so bad. . . _

No. that wouldn’t do. 

I set it aside, and begin one for my parent’s. Short and sweet. Just letting them know I was doing okay. And had a job. Sort of. 

_ Mum. Dad.  _

_ I love you so much. And miss you. When are you coming back? Is grandmum alright? Is she still mad I don’t know spanish well? I’ve moved to London after all. Made a firm decision finally. And decided to pursue the life of an artist. I know. I know. Terrible job security. But I promise right now I will not ask to stay at home for the rest of my life. I’ve even got a commission.  _

_ Love, Jane.  _

That I could just drop off at the muggle post later. 

They hadn’t said how long they’d be gone. After all, they weren’t people who took vacations or anything. They deserved a nice long break. 

I could probably trust Leandra with the fact I was now going to be attempting to break into a Gringotts bank. She was my closest friend. Still, writing  _ how do I break into Gringotts  _ over post. I’d have to find a yiddish dictionary. To be safe. 

Regulus suddenly looks up from his seat next to me, where he’s studiously looking through the file on his brother. “You didn’t get to go to the charity shops back there.” 

I shrug, “it’s fine. Not like any charity shop could beat Hogwarts. Even if the best spot has a habit of disappearing.”

“Jane, you didn’t steal school property did you,” he asks in amusement. The seats on this coach really were tiny. His thigh resting against mine. 

“No! Just nicked some things for my dorm,” I explain, “helped me get familiar with the castle. See, I got lost on my first day. Me and Leandra. But Professor Binns didn’t even notice.” 

Regulus chuckles, “Well if he didn’t notice he died, doubt he’d take much note of a few late students.”

I shake my head, but giggle all the same. “True.” I dig a slim book on the founders out of my bag, from my obsession with Helga Hufflepuff, and decide to use the time to find what other founder’s items could possibly be horcruxes. I had skipped the parts on other founders during my first read through. While Hogwarts a history was the definitive guide to Hogwarts, it wasn’t focused on the founders. 

“You don’t mind staying at Grimmauld Place do you,” Regulus asks, keeping his gaze lowered on the file. “We can stay at a different hotel if you’d feel more comfortable.”

I look over at him, resting my cheek against my hand, feeling all warm and bubbly inside. “I think it’ll be fun to live in a house fit for Dracula-like in that movie from a year or two ago. I’d be a vampire if I got to wear fancy dresses like in that movie! Or looked like Winona Ryder. Though I don’t think I could ever be that pale, being brown and all.” 

He looks up, meeting my gaze, laughing, “my house is not-it’ll look better without the dust.”

I raise a brow, “without the house elf head you mean?”

“If you want them gone, they’re gone.” Regulus says easily. “Why don’t you dress like that if you want. Witch robes can be that fancy.”

“And expensive. Do people really go around in robes like that,” I wonder, thinking about Diagon Alley, everyone in cloaks and fancy hats that rivaled the ones lords and ladies wore to the Royal ascot. Even at Hogwarts I wore muggle clothes when not in class. Maybe I was different if I had non school uniform robes. 

“Yes. it’s like Japan. Where people still wear traditional clothes as well as jeans.”

My eyes widened in surprise, “you’ve been to Japan?”

“No! I watched a BBC program on Japan. One of those travel ones.”

“Oh. That makes sense,” I say, blushing, “One thing that sucks about Hogwarts is always feeling like I’m too muggle for school and too much of a witch when I get home. And now I’m almost 18 and I’m supposed to choose a world and I don’t want to. But I don’t want to live with half in half out either.”

“You don’t have to,” he says softly, squeezing my hand which immediately sends butterflies to my belly. He’s rarely initiated any intimate contact before. “You can be a witch and work in the ministry and come home and watch the telly or go to M&S. If you want Jane.”

I smile wearily, not completely convinced I could. “I guess. It just-it’s a lot. And I do miss herbology but I dunno if I want to take care of plants forever. And potions is a lot of commitment if I end up hating it. Doubt Professor Snape would be willing to write me a letter of recommendation.” 

“You’re still young,” he says as if he’s a graying grandad with one foot in the grave. Dramatic as usual. “You have time to figure it out.”

“What about you,” I ask, thrilled he hasn’t let go of my hand. It felt like I was doing a little internal jig. “Do you want to travel when this is all over? Go to Japan. My parents are in Argentina right now. Visiting my dad’s family. I’ve only been there once and my cousins made fun of me because I can’t speak spanish well. I can understand more than I can speak though so I could tell they were being mean so I spent most of my time with my grandad who played dominos with me.”

Regulus frowns, looking ahead. “I haven’t really thought about it. I’ve just. . .I’ve just been so caught up in taking it day by day I never really imagined what I would do if I wasn’t in hiding.” He looks down at the scars on his free hand, illuminated by the light of the moon. “I-when I was your age I’d already signed my life away before I understood what I meant and no one around me, not my parents, not my cousins, certainly not my friends, thought to stop or warn me, or even explain things. And then the war-” he sighs. “Sometimes I think it would have been better if I died. I hardly deserve to have survived after what I did.” 

I frown. The world, especially my world, would be much poorer without him in it. “I-I know enough to fill in the blanks. The murders and everything else Riddle and his followers did during the wizarding world,” I swallow thickly, remembering the readings Binns had given us in class. “And. . .I don’t know if murder can be forgiven or anything. But I also don’t think you deserve Azkaban. Not when you’ve, trying to off you-know-who does a lot in making up for your past in my opinion. Not that it makes it okay but you’ve changed a lot since then,” I try, fumbling for the words. “If you’d died then, there’d be one more horcrux in the world. I know that for a fact.” 

He smiles sadly, “you wouldn't be saying that if you knew what I have done. They’re-what I did is unforgivable. I still have nightmares about it.”

“Well, there,” I utter gently, squeezing his hand like he had mine, intertwining our fingers together lightly. “That proves my point. You know you were a bloody idiot to join you-know-who and you regret what you did and you’re doing what you can to stop him from ever coming back. I doubt your cousin Bella loses sleep even stuck in Azkaban over her crimes.” 

“You make it sound so simple.” 

I shrug, “people aren’t good or bad Regulus. Good people do bad things all the time. And even bad people have their loved ones.”

“When did you get so wise,” he teases. “Aren’t I supposed to be older and wiser?”

I smile, feeling satisfied with myself, and a smidge smug. “You might be older, that’s true enough. I think I see a grey hair, but being clever is different from being wise.”

He laughs. 

And my heart feels full. 

  
  



	17. Part II: casing a bank

I eat another spoonful of my ice cream from Fortescue’s as we sit at one of the shops tables. Regulus, looking nothing like himself and closer to the lost fifth member of the beatles, takes notes on today’s prophet. Not that we were any closer to breaking into Gringotts than we had been a week ago. 

I don’t remind him, out here in the open. Instead I focus on finishing the commission Penelope had gotten for me. A letter from Leandra burning a hole in my mind. This was the perfect opportunity to ask her about Gringotts. An idea Regulus had made very clear he was dead set against, not trusting that Leandra wouldn’t let the Ministry know. 

The commission isn’t difficult, just time consuming. 

The menu is full of burgers and chips and sodas. Nothing like inventing the wheel, just updating it and charming the menu’s pictures to smell like the food they were advertising. Really, I should have charged more, but live and learn I suppose. 

His frown grows and I know he’s getting impatient. We haven’t gotten any new information from watching the outside of Gringotts, and any time we spend casing the building is time where Regulus could be made. He is after all, supposed to be dead. I also didn’t think we were going to get any of the information we needed from outside the building. 

But again, not like I can say anything out in the open. 

I finish the last menu board. 

It’s a fine job if I do say so myself. 

Regulus, who’s going by the name Jacques in case anyone stops us, looks about ready to hex someone. 

So I speak up, “your ice cream’s melting.”

He doesn’t look away from the paper. He might actually be doing the crossword. “Peru defeated Uganda, so they’ll be playing Ireland for a spot in the final. Bulgaria’s playing France this weekend for the final.”

I don’t really care. “Will we listen to the game on the radio again,” I ask him. Once Kreacher and Regulus had knocked a few layers of dust off the radio, it was almost workable. Except there was the occasional static that lasted a few moments before the program returned. 

“Are you ready to go,” he asks instead. 

I nod, wanting to get back to Grimmauld Place and corner him about asking Leandra for help. It was a risk worth taking considering we hadn’t gotten anywhere in the past two weeks. The only thing we had down was how to get past the wizard guards at the door. 

Nothing else. 

We get up, and don’t get much further than a step before he takes my hand and we apparate into Grimmauld Place, by the stairs, just past the portrait of his mother which, blessedly, doesn’t wake up at our sudden appearance there. I kick my shoes off, shoving them off to the side, under the coat rack Kreacher had placed there. 

“We need to tell Leandra,” I tell him for what feels like the hundredth time. “Not everything obviously but we don’t even know where the Lestrange vault is! Even if we were to break in tomorrow we wouldn’t know where to even look.”

“We can’t risk it,” he says, cutting me off, and already moving up the stairs. We’d taken over fourth floor, replacing the clippings he had on the walls of voldemort and death eaters with everything we knew about Gringotts and it’s layout. It wasn’t much. 

I follow at his heels. “You’re being ridiculous! We can’t break into a bank not knowing where to look! What security measures are there!”

Regulus rolls his eyes. “We can. We know to break in during the day when most goblins are in the upper floors with witches and wizards. And the Lestrange vault is most likely down in the depths where all the old families have their vaults.”

“And if we’re wrong,” I point out. “Or how many doorways and passages could be down there! And we still don’t have a way to open the vault door.”

“The imperius curse,” Regulus says quietly. “It’ll work on a goblin well enough.”

I flinch. “You want to use an unforgivable.”

He nods seriously. “I don’t trust my legilimens skills on a goblin.” 

I take a deep breath, “there’s still too many factors we don’t know.”

“And we won’t know them if we wait another week or a year,” Regulus snaps. “We cannot trust your friend. If she tells anyone, if the letter is snatched-,”

“I trust her,” I say, matching his tone, “she’s my friend. She wouldn’t do that to me.”

“You can’t know that! This isn’t like asking to borrow a sweater for merlin’s sake, we’re breaking into Gringotts!” 

“Don’t you trust me,” I ask instead. Feeling hurt. I knew Leandra. Had known her since I was eleven and I knew I could trust her. She was my friend. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“Do you think if we tried getting the cup tomorrow,” I continue to say pointedly, “we’d be successful.”

He doesn’t respond, just shakes his head. 

“Then we have to take the chance.” I finish. It wasn’t a risk when it was Leandra. 

Regulus frowns, but meets my gaze. “We can go after the diadem,” he says quietly. 

“We don’t even know where to begin with that one,” I point out. “This is our best bet.”

“I trust you Jane, I just don’t trust her.”

“Well too bad,” I say, before turning on my heel and disappearing into the room I’d taken over. His brother’s room. 

It's changed from when we first got here. Like the rest of the house, between our combined efforts, layers of dust have been peeled off. And even just opening up the curtains revealed what a stately home this once was. And would be again given how much time and energy Kreacher poured into it. Taking the deepest care as he cleaned the upholstery and tarnished silverware. 

As for my current room, the biggest change had been me peeling of the posters of bikini clad women. I'd yet to figure out how to take down the many Gryffindor banners, but I didn't mind those as much. 

First, I fold up the posters I had made by magic, keeping them from creasing. Then scribble a quick letter to Penelope saying thanks a million once more. Maybe after I broke into Gringotts, if I wasn't banned for life, I'd open an account there. 

Then I get to writing Leandra, combing through the yiddish dictionary I'd gotten from the second hand book shop at Diagon Alley, going work by word translating it. 

_my dearest leandra,_

_do you happen to know where the lestrange vault is? it's for an art project. will let you know all as soon as i see you._

_xoxo, jane_

It was such a short and simple letter despite the very important information it carried. 

“Kreacher,” I call out. I never got over the strangeness of talking to myself and expecting the house elf to hear. He usually listened. 

We still didn't have an owl. 

With a crack, the ancient house elf appears, muttering under his breath as he tended to do when I was near. “Horrible muggleborn in this ancient noble house. My master regulus is too kind. Too kind.” We had made progress. He hadn't called me filthy in over a week. 

“Can you post this letter please?” I ask kindly, trying. For Regulus' sake. 

He stares at my hand, and after a dramatic pause, extends his hand and snatches the letter out of my hand. Holding it out from his small body as if being muggleborn was contagious. 

“Today. It's urgent,” I add. 

He disappears and I can only hope he’ll do it. 

Without the commission to work on, I lay down in the lumpy bed. Some of the stuffing came through, but the linens hid the worst of it. I play with the watch Regulus had given me, the tiny ravens in the crest flying around, the wand that shot sparks every hour. It's only four in the afternoon. My watch now. 

I press the crown, wondering what would appear for me, since I wasn't a Black. No strange names of celestial bodies for me. 

Two symbols appear. A tree and a bird. My dad and mum. My family. So the enchantment did work for me. I had the itch to see them the moment they came back to England. I still hadn't given them an address to write me: what with me being a rolling stone at the moment. Mum must be fretting. 

I decide to tackle one of the many trunks in the room. A lion frozen in mid roar. The charm long worn off. 

There's a battered leather jacket inside that easily dwarfs my frame. A few ripped flannels that are more holes than shirts. And a record collection, complete with a record player and cassettes and a portable cassette player. Diamonds in the rough. I grab my wand from its holster, clearing off the accumulated dust, like a thick blanket coating everything. 

My cleaning charm’s excellent. Vanishing the vast majority of the dust in two goes. A decades worth of grime. 

The Rolling Stones. AC DC. ABBA. Talking heads. The Beatles. 

Figuring Sirius Black, wherever he is, won’t mind, I pop in _Remain in Light._ The tape still plays out of the headphones. Then I head to the third floor. There was always something to clean in Grimmauld Place. 

  
  
  


It takes Leandra two days to respond. A massive owl pecks at my window. It barely manages to fit through the frame. 

I give the owl the crust from my sandwich since I don't have any treats. Then take the letter from it's claw. 

_Jane-y_

_Here are the plans to gringotts. the lestrange vault will be on the seventh floor underground. In Vault 1789_

_Call me asap! 345-1200._

Which meant I needed to go find a payphone. 

I dig around my bag for coins, knowing I've got some change. There's always change at the bottom of my bag from this and that. And I'm pretty sure there was a payphone outside of the Waitrose on the other block, throwing on a jumper and the first shoes I find in my room. Flats which were on just this side of the sole falling off. 

_Reparo_ could only do so much. 

Before I apparate outside of Grimmauld Place. I hated setting the portrait of Mrs. Black off. Her screeches of “mudblood,” usually ruined my day. Well, maybe only an hour before I moved one 

I dial the number she’d sent me. 

The dial rings. 

I hear the click when she picks up.

“Jane? Is that you?”

“It's me Leandra,” I say with excitement at hearing her voice. It had been a minute. “you good.”

“Worried actually,” she snaps. “the letter you sent. That was out of nowhere. The better be your current obsession like the knitting and paintings and tie dye. Oh and that time with the plants.”

I frown, realizing most of my plants back home were probably dead. Would Kreacher mind if I bought a peace lily into Grimmauld Place? “Well the plant thing might be my career. Or the painting. Haven't decided on that really.”

Voice all static-y, Leandra responds, “so I heard. Michelle told me you told her that your still up in Blackpool?”

“Yeah,” I lie, feeling bad. “I dunno. Penelope got me my first art commission so that's what I'm up to at the moment.”

“Michelle and Penelope are living together,” she comments. 

“You been talking to them then,” I ask feeling hurt. She hadn't written me at all. 

“Yes well you up and fell off the face of the earth. I don't have much chances to get post out,” she admits. “the clans are very insular. But funny enough don't mind a muggle phone.”

“Ah,” I laugh. 

“So this is an obsession yeah,” she asks again. “you're not-you're not going to. . .” Leandra trails off. 

“No of course not,” I lie. “I just wanted to try out...sculpting. Figured I'd try my hand at Gringotts before tackling Hogwarts but I looked over the plans you sent me and maybe I should just start out with a gingerbread house.” It certainly sounded like something I would do. 

I had been taken by the sculptures on display at the V&A a month ago. 

Leandra laughs. “that's good. You really had me worried for a second. So what have you been up to Jane-y?”

“You know,” I say, “drawing. Following the world cup.”

“Since when do you care about quidditch?”

“Oh,” I reply, “it's just something to listen to on the radio. I'm sick of listening Blurs Parklife. It's not even the best song on the album.”

“Modern life is rubbish was the better album,” Leandra agrees. 

The tone sounds.

“Love you. See You. Write me,” I say in a rush before the call ends, my money spent. 

Then, glancing up and down the street, I apparate back into Grimmauld Place. 

I've got one foot on the stairs when I hear Kreacher scream, “Master Regulus no!” 

And I run, my wand in my hand, already summoning a shield charm. It’s with my heart beating erratically in my chest, shoes still on, that I burst into the kitchen. 

His face is twisted in pain as he clutches his hand to his chest. The tea kettle’s on the floor, steaming water making a puddle as it gets everywhere. Kreacher’s banging his head against the cupboard door, crying about, “I’ve failed my master regulus again.” Before he bangs his head again. 

When I realize no ones attacking the house, I stash my wand away, and rush over to his side. 

Regulus flinches when I get near him, halting me my steps. The look in his eyes is far away, unfocused. “Kr-Kreacher stop,” he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to take a deep breath. 

“Reg-Regulus,” I say gently, “you’re in London, again. Grimmauld Place.”

“I can’t,” he stammers, “I can’t do it. I don’t want to do it.” 

“Regulus,” I whisper quietly, taking a step closer to him, glancing at his hand. It’s red and starting to swell. I piece together what happened. He must have had a moment and grabbed the hot kettle. Burned himself. Bloody hell. Maybe mum was right. I should’ve been a healer. “Regulus. It’s me Jane. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.” 

He opens his silver eyes, looking over at me. 

I think I might have a balm in my bag from potions class. Professor Snape was a master at finding the most complex of potions to make us brew. And balms were notoriously tricky when it came to the change of states from liquid to solid. “Kreacher,” I says, taking control of the situation. “Get my bag. I need to heal him.”

The elf stops banging his head. Disappearing and reappearing in seconds. 

Kreacher holds my bag out to me, looking away as though my bag might kill him at any second. 

I take it, rifling through its contents, until I find the vial I want. 

Regulus is still. . .like a deer in headlights. Looking through me, lost in his own head. His body trembling, still muttering things to himself. The house must be confusing him. He hadn’t lived here since before-

I wonder if this had been going on for days and I just haven’t noticed because we aren’t sharing a room anymore. He wasn’t the type of person who'd let me know he needed help. After all, he’d gone days without sleeping all to avoid waking me up because of his nightmares. 

Uncorking the vial, moving slowly, I tell him, “I’m going to put balm on your burn. Is that okay? I know I hated having to take medicine when I was a kid. I’d spit out cough syrup whenever my mum gave me it. And that was after chasing me around the house.”

Regulus doesn’t look anymore present. 

I close the distance between us. 

He jumps, startled, but at least looks like he’s realized I’m there. “J-Jane?”

“Yeah,” I tell him, blushing like mad when I grab his wrist and smear the blam over his burn, watching as it immediately starts going down, turning from red to pink until it’s back to its normal ivory shade. “Out of school remember. Unfortunately that means getting a proper job. Leandra reminded me when I called her. I doubt my mum will think trying to off you-know-who counts as a job.” I frown. “I never did tell her about you-know-who. Didn’t want to worry them. See my dad left Argentina because of all the violence that was going on at the time. . .also cuz of mum. That was a big thing.” 

“Jane,” he frowns, scrunching up his brow, “what are you doing here? You have to go, before they see you here.” 

“Regulus,” I ask, puzzled. “Who are they?”

“My parents.”

Oh. Yeah. This was a bad day then. 

Gently, I tell him, “They’re dead. Remember. It’s 1994. We’re about to break into Gringotts.”

He frowns, but doesn’t pull away. “I-yes. I’m. . .”

“It’s okay,” I whisper to him, “Just. . .do you know where you are?”

He nods, tilting his head closer to me, his now healed burned hand, still covered in scars, still in my hand. “Yes Jane. I do. It’s just. . .I had a flashback. I think that’s what the nurse called them.”

“It’s this whole house isn’t it,” I question, leaning into the moment. 

He nods. “It’s bringing back so many memories I’d. . .forgotten. But, really. I’m fine.”

“So you haven’t been secretly flipping out the whole time and not telling me about it,” I ask, both of us standing so close together our breath was mingling. 

“No,” he says chuckling. “No. I don’t think my nerves could take it frankly. “

I giggle. “Before you know it you’ll have gone grey.”

He snorts, “oi! I’m not that old.”

“You dress like the grandad on those BBC specials, like from upstairs and downstairs that dies and leaves his secret illegitimate daughter a fortune or something.” 

Regulus snorts, life coming back to his eyes. “I do not!”

“I’ve seen you wear sweater vests,” I say, shaking my head solemnly. 

“The house in Blackpool didn’t have central heating.”

“You’re a wizard though,” I point out. 

“Oh,” Kreacher cries behind us, reminding us of where exactly we are, “my poor master Regulus forgot he was a wizard! Kreacher is sorry for leaving him to suffer alone!” 

“Kreacher it’s alright,” Regulus says, his fingers intertwined with mine, “I’m alright. And muggles really aren’t bad at all. To be honest the cave was worth getting to use a computer.”

I snort. “Can I hug you?”

Regulus meets my searching gaze. “Yeah.” 

And just like that, I’m wrapping my arms around his middle, as if he was just any old friend. This ridiculous man was going to give me a heart attack. One of these days. I rest my head against his chest. 

He hugs me back, lightly, but for Regulus, that was a lot. He didn’t even shake people’s hands for merlin’s sake. “I’m okay Jane, really.” He says, tenderly stroking my head. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“I can’t help it though,” I utter back, not caring if I sound silly. It was true. 

He doesn’t say anything back and I’m scared I might have ruined the moment. Me and my stupid mouth. 

So I add, “oh, and Leandra came through. She sent me a rough layout of Gringotts.”

Regulus lends back, meeting my eyes. “Really!”

I nod. “I told you we could trust her.”

He rolls his eyes. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We must still proceed with caution.”

“Duh,” I respond, pulling out of his embrace, even if I wanted nothing more than to stay in his arms forever. “Let’s go up to our serial killer board shall we?”

“No. It’s a detective board. Jane! Its-serial killers don’t use them,” he says catching up to me as I head to the stairs. 

We had a bank breakin to plan. 

My mum and dad would probably regret letting me attend Hogwarts if they ever found out. 

  
  



	18. Part II: unforeseen forks in the road

“Let's go over the plan again,” Regulus says, taking a long sip of his darjeeling that was more milk and sugar than tea. 

I shake my head, having long finished the light breakfast Kreacher had made for us. Today, after all, was the day. The day before the match between Peru and Ireland for the final. The last day of July. The day we were breaking into the most highly secured bank in the world. 

There should be plenty of witches and wizards withdrawing funds from Gringotts today. 

“We've gone over the plan loads of times,” I note. “Are you sure I don’t look bad in these robes? It's not too much.” The robes had to be out of date having been folded up in one of the many trunks in the house. Unlike most of the clothes left to rot, we had salvaged this pair with only a minor repair to keep a few buttons from falling. A plus side of cleaning out Grimmauld Place was I able to pick and choose things for myself since no one else was using it. Regulus hadn't said anything about it and Kreacher had kept his grumbling to a minimum. 

Did wizarding fashion change a lot? 

It had taken a while to find robes in this house that were close to my size and weren't moth eaten. 

Regulus snips, “didn't you want to look like a victorian vampire?”

“No,” I correct, “I want to dress like Winona Ryder if she was a victorian vampire.” I smooth out the gold dress. It wasn't a strong shade of gold like a shining star, but matte gold. The robe itself was thick black velvet with an embroidered lily pattern in gold sequins. 

Regulus grins sharply, “well, that's no comparison. You look better than Winona Ryder every day. It's just now you've robes to compliment your beauty.” 

I feel heat rise to my cheeks. “Don't be a dick.”

“I'm being completely serious,” he insists, getting up and following me down the stairs with a spare wand we'd found in a drawer full of doxies. The wand he'd use to cast the imperius curse later. 

I roll my eyes. Trying not to stare. But I couldn't help myself. 

Regulus looked dashing in a slate grey suit and a navy overcoat, looking every bit the pureblood wizard he'd been raised to be. Then he fidgets with his collar. “Fine. Don't believe me Jane. But I don't think any man in his right mind would pay Winona Ryder any attention with you in the room.” He extends his arm. And we apparate into Diagon Alley. 

There's a crowd of wizards and witches shopping around. All the shops are plastered with the team colors of the semi finalists. Everyone declaring their allegiance to Bulgaria, France, or Ireland clad in team jerseys and scarfs. The most engaged of the fans even have little flags painted on their cheeks. In the crowd, we blend in perfectly. 

While my robes are a tad bit dressier, it's perfectly in line with the riot of plaid on one witch or the hot chili paste red robes of another wizard I spot. Wizarding fashion leaned towards the dramatic. 

Regulus holds my hand, moving forward until we reach Gringotts, not risking losing me in the crowd. He’s disguised once more. This time, he'd kept his dark hair, combing it back neatly and out of his face, charming some color into his skin. Less naturally pale and more, brit who spend their august tanning in Mallorca. There were changes to his features as well. A bump in his nose and chocolate eyes. As well as a beard I personally wasn't over fond of. 

As part of the plan. I was also in disguise. My hair lightened to chestnut curls instead of its usual dark frizzy waves. I had a smattering of freckles over my nose and cheeks. We'd taken the time to lighten my skin tone so that I was just one of the many white witches in europe. It was strange to catch a glimpse of myself in the shop windows and see a stranger looking back. 

This was it. The first step in the plan. 

I try to act natural. Studying the metal cast doors, a lot like Rodin’s gates of hell, except these showed goblins in various stages of creating their fine products: from tiaras to swords. 

A graying wizard with a little Ireland pin is posted as guard. The young black witch must be on her break. “Names?”

“Jacques Dupont,” Regulus says, hopefully starting to cast his legilimens spell, with a light french accent. The neatest way we'd decided on to get past the guard. 

“Alice Dupont.” I say shortly, and hopefully, with confidence. 

A glazed look passed over the guards eyes, sort of like when Regulus has a flashback. Then, he waves us through. Fake names and all. That simple.

“You've got to teach me how to do that,” I whisper to him.

He shakes his head, “first you have to get dueling down. You've yet to go on the offensive.”

“Well I don't want to hurt you.” 

“A stupefy doesn't hurt,” he grins, remembering all the time's he'd stunned me. 

The first problem arises almost immediately. We step inside, past the first guards and there are more guards walking around inside. Ministry people, pulling people at random. Ministry guards that are not supposed to be here. 

We'd spent weeks casing the place. 

There weren't supposed to be any more guards past the gates. The goblins hated having a guard at the door already, not trusting the ministry further than they could throw them. 

Fuck.

Fuck.

I try my best to keep a blank face. We're completely screwed if we get pulled over. This has to be because of the quidditch world cup. Right? There's no way they could know. Only the both of us knew about this. “So this is fine right,” I say, feeling panic grip my chest like a vice, like a particularly large boa constrictor. 

“They're not going to stop us,” he comments, looking over at me as if we were having a much chat about the match tomorrow. 

“How did they know,” I wonder. I know neither of us said anything. And Leandra, she wouldn't have, couldn't have really. She didn't know the plan. And she was my friend. She'd never even if she suspected something was up. 

“They don't.” He says not meeting my eyes. “Jane they're not going to stop us watch who they're pulling aside.” Regulus tilts my chin up, towards him as if he's having a particularly intimate conversation with me. Just past him, I watch the ministry officials pull aside a witch dressed in muggle clothes. 

Oh. 

Complete tossers the lot of them. 

Of course they were suspicious of the muggleborns. No wonder people like Marcus Flint could go around being utter bell ends at school with the ministry acting like this even after the wizarding war. 

I'm fuming in line as I watch the patrolling guards pull aside witches in converse and wizards wearing levi's. 

We wait in line for the next available window and I realize a lot of breaking in is waiting and being bored and pretending like everything's fine. “I'm just not the dueling type. Now, if you need a potion...that I can do.”

“Then get a potions apprenticeship,” he says with a shrug. “You can always grow your own ingredients at home since you enjoy gardening. Just do both.”

“I'm not an overachiever,” I note, “I'm a get my work done so I can go draw. You know, the lady from the burger place in Enfield sent me a thank you note. I guess I could work in a herbology nursery while pursuing my art. You know what, I think I'll just worry about it after we finish all this business.”

Regulus laughs, and I've never felt more aware of his hand in mine. It didn't seem like such an insane idea to be breaking into Gringotts with him by my side. 

I think it's time to face the facts. I have a big fat crush on my Regulus. My friend. 

Just, maybe later. When we weren't-

The plaque reads  _ Phenkea _ . 

“State your name and business.” The goblin asks, looking up from her typewriter. She wore heavy metal rings that glittered like lightning bugs in the dim lights of the bank. Her thin red hair was combed back in a braid. 

I felt a terrible pang of guilt, like metal, in my mouth. She didn't deserve what we were about to do to her. 

Regulus smiles amiblicably. “Imperio.” 

I don't even catch a glimpse of the wand that must be on him. 

The goblin blinks. Face going slack, before she nods. “There's just a form that must be filled before I take you down to your vault.” 

“Of course,” Regulus says. 

It sends a chill down my spine, knowing how cold he is able to be when the occasion calls for it. And I'm reminded of the fact that he was an eager death eater at one point. He'd cast the unforgivable before on innocent people like Phenkea. 

It's a bitter truth to swallow. 

I can't swallow it.

Not when I'm seeing the side of him that can do those dark crimes. The truth lodges in my throat, tension rising in my jaw. 

She fills out a form. Seemingly normal. 

We were all capable of awful things. My dad had told me that once, watching the news from back home. People just doing their jobs- 

I snap out of it. Remembering the Regulus I know. Squeezing his hand as we follow the goblin into a cart. Down into the dark passageways of the bank. This was the only way we could get the horcrux and destroy Voldemort once and for all. 

Soon, the cacophony of the first floor abandons us entirely. And I'm reminded of the dark spell in the Gaunt shack remembering the hopelessness in my belly when I couldn't cast even a simple lumos. My hand goes immediately to my wand. 

It's a small comfort. 

As we descend into the depths of the bank. 

“I was thinking,” Regulus says. “The wallpaper in the entrance is complete rubbish. What do you think about painting a new entrance?” 

My eyes widen in surprise. I look up at him, but he is careful, keeping his eyes on the goblin. Glancing ahead at the track. “What if it's-what if I mess it up?”

“You can paint over it.”

I smile, feeling at least one knot of anxiety loosen in my back. I had been itching to paint. Tired of researching countless founders items. Separating the myth from truth. Godric Gryffindor is where we hit a dead end. “So the diadem next right,” I say. “I'd bet the little money I have that Tom found it. He is very clever in an evil way. But where would he hide it? You don't have another lunatic cousin with another horcrux do you?”

“All out of cousins unfortunately,” he smirks, before turning serious. “The ring was where it belonged. Gaunt ring in the Gaunt house. The slytherin locket in the cave. Why wouldn't he have placed the cup somewhere similar.” He turns the puzzle over in his mind. 

My eyes fly forward, spotting a waterfall. I take my hand out of his, “Regulus,” with a hint of panic because he did not do well in water. Not at all.

How long had Professor Dumbledore been at hogwarts? You-know-who's main opponent. The only person he ever feared according to Binns. 

Regulus raises his own wand, and steadily casts fiendfyre once more. Just a brief spluttering flames. Enough to engulf the pouring water. And we’re through. 

The goblin doesn't bolt. 

The imperius curse holding. 

“Leandra didn't miss a detail,” I can't help but gloat.

“Save the gloating for when we’re back home listening to the match.”

Phenkea stops the cart at the start of a dark path. The grey rock carved into an archway, resplendent with bas reliefs. The Petra Jordan of London, and its been right under our feet this whole time. 

I do my best to memorize the entire thing, as we follow her down the path. My fingers are itching for my sketchbook that's back at Grimmauld Place.

The goblin abruptly comes to a stop. Her lantern casting an eerie glow. 

I bump into Regulus and a moment later realize why, just as the goblin starts blinking, looking around wildly, “what? where? You,” anger overtakes all other emotions on her face. But before she can try anything. Regulus has the spare wand out. “Imperio.” And she falls back under the spell. 

Well that was one problem solved. 

Now, for the problem of the dragon that was not of the map. “Why wouldn't Leandra mention the bloody dragon,” I hiss, as it's white pearlescent head rises, looking around. “Kind of important song you think.”

Regulus’ looks over at me in bewilderment. “Well she sold us out so.” 

Immediately. I want to protest, say she would never. The newly posted guards had to be a result of the Quidditch world cup. She wouldn't have. . .but she was the only other person alive who knew something about our mad plan. Still, the loyal part of my heart that belongs to my best friend wants to deny it. Say that this is some new security measure even as I see the evidence with my own eyes, the chains around the dragon that must have been here for decades. 

Ugh. 

So I shoved thoughts of Leandra away, and focus on the present. “We have to sneak around it.” 

He nods grimly. “No other way.” 

“Animal cruelty,” I mutter under my breath, before following in his steps, watching the ground as carefully as I can, not daring to summon light to my wand for fear of rousing the dragon. 

Regulus stumbles halfway to the vaults, behind the dragon because of course they are. The rock that tripped him goes flying, making harsh clanging noises as it falls. 

The dragon rounds on us. 

Oh to hell with it, I run for the vaults. Weaving behind stone pillars and feeling the weight of the robes I was wearing. Should've worn jeans to rob a bank. 

I look over my shoulder, expecting Regulus to be right behind me. 

But he's not. 

He's still rooted to the spot even as the dragon opens its jaw, fire in its throat. The strongest light down in this cavern. 

I don’t think. Just act, shouting, “flipendo,” aiming my wand at Regulus. 

The dragon breathes fire, like a volcano erupting, and I go blind from the strength of the sudden light. The brightness blinding. I blink rapidly, knowing I can’t stay still. 

Holding my breath as I look around for him. 

The dragon hasn’t stopped, now rounding on me. “Jane,” Regulus calls out from somewhere, panic in his voice. I don't have time to look, my feet carrying me forward, as I launch myself behind a pillar as fire consumes it. The stone grows red behind my back, a searing heat, one I’ve never felt before. And fire surrounds me on both sides. There’s nowhere to run. Nothing to do. 

But endure the scorching heat in hope the dragon loses interest before I’m roasted alive. 

I try to remember everything I’d learned about dragons which mostly boiled down to run for your live. I couldn’t do that here. Dragons, wild fierce creatures. But this one wasn’t wild...there had to be a way that the goblins controlled it. It had to be trained to something. But what. 

Dragonhide was too thick for any of our spells to penetrate. It would have to be something else. 

I needed to ask the goblin. But I wasn’t anywhere near her. 

Hells, I step out with a half baked plan as soon as the fire stops, and run through the hot flames with a shield charm before yelling, “geminio,” pointing my wand at the dragon. Hoping this spell at least got through. 

A mirror image of the pearly white dragon arises, appearing in the air, just as large and just as agitated. 

They start to fight and I’m surprised as hell that the image is holding. I don’t waste the time I’ve bought, running to the vaults, to Regulus who’s gripping his hair looking half out of his mind. “Jane-,” 

“Will the portkey work inside the vault,” I ask him in a rush. 

He shakes his head. “No. I don’t think so. It’s not like anyones ever broken into Gringotts before.”

I round on the goblin, “will that have altered someone?”

She nods, “the dragon acts up from time to time. There will be goblins come to quiet the situation.”

“We’re going to have to hope the portkey works,” I tell him, “you said you-you kept in mind the wards!”

“There’s no way to be sure,” he snips back. 

“Well if we just stand our like knobs we’ll be caught so,” I tell the goblin. “Open the lestrange vault.” 

She goes, sticking her long thing fingers into the seams of the door, opening up the door. “Anything else we should know,” I ask flippantly. 

“The items you touch will burn and replicate until they crush you alive.”

“Great,” I roll my eyes. 

Regulus grabs my arm tightly, peering down at me with a look of desperation, “Jane, if they catch us, tell them I place you under the imperius curse.”

“I’m not-,”

“Jane!” He says thickly, jaw clenched. 

“Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

We step into the vault.

Phenkea stands, ready to close the door. And Regulus takes the spare wand one last time and utters, “obliviate.” The door closes. 

The inside of the vault is covered in gold, and better lighting than the entire building. Gold coins, books, tiaras, medals with rubies the size of my fist. A fortune in precious stones. 

“Don’t touch anything but the cup,” Regulus says, already moving further into the vault, looking for Hufflepuff’s cup. 

“Yes, yes,” I wave off, glancing around the vault. Nothing here said, evil bit of voldemort’s soul, or even this all belongs to an incredibly dark family. There were necklaces absolutely coated in diamonds. Things right out of a museum, that easily belonged as part of the crown jewels. 

But the cup. . .

The cup. 

I keep glancing, knowing our time was limited. There were goblins making their way down to these vaults as we speak. And soon enough, they’d open the door and if they found us. . .there was no way I was selling Regulus out. 

Not like Leandra had done to me. 

I’d ask for Dumbledore. Sell the information we had for immunity. 

“There,” Regulus cries out, pointing at the brim of a cup, the head of a badger barely visible from behind an illuminated manuscript. “Accio cup!”

It doesn’t budge. 

Of course. 

That would be too easy. 

“A broom would be perfect right about now,” Regulus grumbles. 

“I can get you up there for a second,” I tell him, formulating a plan in my head. “How are your seeker reflexes?”

“Wingardium Leviosa doesn’t work on living things,” he warns me. 

I aim my wand at him, picturing the spot in front of the shelf. In the air. “I know that.  _ Mobilicorpus,”  _ I cast, and drag him up into the air. 

My spell is shaky from the nerves, anxiety coiled up in my belly like solid rock. But it holds. And Regulus snatches the cup from the shelf. It turns read, but he doesn’t let go, even as the pain from holding the cup is plain in his face. 

Instantly, more cups start to appear, pooling on the floor. 

I trudge through, wincing as they brush my shoes, burning the leather. New shoes after this was over I guess. I did have a few galleons to my name now. Trying to make my way over to him. 

Sweat was starting to form on my brow, and the replicating cups showed no signs, or stopping. 

We meet in the middle, Regulus reaching his hand out to mine, my fingers barely brushing his, and he grabs me, pulling me roughly over to him, and out of the cups that were now coming up to my calf, and still piping hot. “Got you,” he utters, relieved. 

“Portkey,” I remind him. My fingers intertwined with his. 

He hands me the cup, and I wince at the sudden heat, but I don’t let go. If it falls, there’s no way we’ll be able to find it among the other identical cups. Regulus digs out the portkey, one of the few cassette tapes damaged beyond a reparo spell’s ability to fix. The slim tape fit perfectly into his pocket. 

The gears of the door start to move. 

Regulus’ grip on my hand increases as the world starts spinning, the portkey activated. 

We crash onto the ground, hard. On some field outside of London. 

My head hurts, and the cup finally stops burning, falling out of my hand. I rub my temples, feeling the adrenaline start to disappear, and the crash of the excitement drag me down. 

There was still the horcrux to be destroyed. 

Our mission wasn’t over yet. 

Regulus sits up with a groan. Looking just as disheveled as I feel. “Jane,” he utters, closing the distance between us, “you’re alright!” He wraps his arms around me, crushing me against his chest. And my heart bursts into little fireworks in my chest, cheeks burning. 

I hug him back immediately, soaking in the feel of his body against mine. Giddy that we’d make it. That we’d made it out without dying. “Yes, yes. I think I might have a hell of a sunburn. . .can you get a sunburn from dragon fire?”

He laughs, “Maybe. I don’t know much about dragons.”

I giggle, looking up at him, aware of the hair’s breadth between our faces now. I could see the tenderness in his gaze, my knees weak. I doubted I could stand in that moment. “We should destroy it then,” I rush out, because if he kept looking at me like that, I wouldn’t be able to help myself. I wanted to kiss him, but that would ruin everything. 

He was my friend. 

Just my friend. 

It hurts to think of Leandra now. 

“Why would Leandra,” I start, watching the smoldering remains of the horcrux. “Why’d she sell me out?”

Regulus looks over at me, before kindly lying, “it could be a coincidence.”

“But it’s not,” I state with a frown. 

“Well,” Regulus tries, still trying to be nice, “you’ve got to look at it from her perspective. You were trying to break into a bank. A crime. She didn’t report you or else we’d have gotten a visit from the aurors. Just that a robbery was planned for Gringotts. In her mind, she was doing the right thing.”

I shake my head, hurt, “I wouldn’t have. If it was her. I would’ve trusted my friend was-had a really good reason.” I meet his gaze evenly. 

He smiles sadly, “people are rarely as good as we want them to be. You’re an exceptional friend. But most people aren’t like that. I’m sorry that you had to be disappointed like this Jane. But you will find other friends worthy of your friendship.”

“I understand why she did it,” I say out loud, my voice sounding all choked up with hot rampant emotion, even though we could have died: been eaten by the dragon. “I just wish she had the guts to tell me.

We put the cup away, taking it with us. 

And start our long walk back to the nearest bus station. 

Not willing to apparate right back to Grimmauld Place. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing action is so hard. hope u like my attempt.   
> also jane and regulus (as i read over this chapter) are already acting like a couple so much its so dumb neither of them has acted on it tbh but ah pining is always fun to read


	19. Part II: the dark mark

We listen to the final match in the quidditch world cup on the radio. Kreacher is busy trying to make the sitting room look like someone might live here. Regulus has taken the floor, a pile of books open, trying to find where the didem might be. What item of Gryffindor Riddle might have used to make his final horcrux. The sword and hat were crossed off the list. But there didn’t seem to be anything else that survived the age from that founder. 

We were no closer to finding another lead in mid august than we had been back when we were still after the cup. 

I look over Tonk’s letter. The shop that commissioned me, a second hand broom shop in the south side of London. I’d gotten 50 galleons for two posters. One of Ireland. One of Bulgaria. Just in case the other team won. 

_ Jane,  _

_ Sorry it took me such a blimey long time to write. The cup’s got the aurors running all over the place. not that I’m an auror yet! We need to get a bite next time you’re down in london. Promise okay. The shopkeeper loved your work. (I knew you were good just not that good! Might get a portrait of me mum sling as you don’t charm it. Don't need anymore nagging.)  _

_ Tonks _

In Tonks fashion, there was a water stain on the corner, as well as a ring of coffee near the middle of the parchment. I pen a reply. Michelle hadn’t responded yet. But she’d warned me she was going to hit the pubs all weekend. Which was not surprising for her. 

What was surprising was her and straight laced Penelope being roommates. 

Then there was the matter of my parents. 

Regulus agreed there wasn’t any harm in me giving them Grimmauld Place’s address so they could write. And we’d eventually get around to getting a phone installed for convenience. If I stayed here that long that was.

They still thought I was living with Penelope. 

“Well he created the locket and cave during the war,” I think out loud as Ireland scores again. Regulus wasn't particularly invested in one team winning. He just wanted there to be a good game. “And the cup as well. I think the diary is the odd one out? Maybe the first?”

“You think he put all those enchantments because of the war,” Regulus questions, looking up from,  _ Egypt: Curses of the Nile. _

I shake my head, “I think he wanted to do what he did with the ring. Bring the artifacts back to Hogwarts. I mean, he feared Dumbledore. So if he got-what if he planned to take over Hogwarts once he won the war.” 

He tilts his head, “the dark lord did-he planned to transform Hogwarts. Teach a new generation the old ways.” Regulus says, running a hand through his hair. I shouldn't be so surprised. He had been a death eater once after all. 

“So maybe the question is less where the diadem was, then where the diadem is hidden. . .no that actually doesn't help.” I frown. I was thinking in circles. “Unless you know death eaters that broke into or had access to Hogwarts during the wizarding war. Dumbledore wouldn’t have let anyone in though. Right?”

He grins mirthlessly, “Professor Dumbledore isn’t perfect. He was slow to act against Grindelwald and he was slow to act against the dark lord. Outside of Ministry control. He might have prevented the Ministry being infiltrated to begin with.”

“I know you don’t like Professor Dumbledore but isn’t the enemy of your enemy your friend? And that wasn’t the point,” I say from my perch on the only chair Kreacher had reupholstered with what looked like the remains of the kitchen’s curtains. “Did you ever hear of any death eaters getting access to hogwarts?”

“Yes,” he dead pans, looking up from his books. “Me.”

“What,” I utter sitting up straight. I knew he’d been a death eater. But how early had he gotten-had he joined! What use could you-know-who even have for children? “How old were you exactly when you decided joining a cult was a good idea?” 

He hunches into himself, looking down at the floor, staring intently at an open book. 

“Like what the actual fuck,” I continue, unable to stop myself, trying to wrap my head around how that would even work, “were you terrorizing muggles between studying and quidditch practice.” 

You could have heard a pin drop in the resounding silence. 

“-and Ireland scores again what teamwork the Irish chasers have shown throughout the cup,” the radio announcer cries out. 

I take a deep breath, getting a hold of myself. 

“Sixteen,” Regulus finally responds. “I was sixteen when I took the dark mark. When I killed someone for the first time.”

I inhale sharply. It’s not like I hadn’t known what he must have done, once. But assuming and hearing him admit as much was very different. It made it real. Before, I could just brush over it, and not think about any of it at all. 

He wasn’t the same person, but that didn’t undo the crimes he’d commited. 

“I-I,” I close my mouth. At a loss for words. What could I possibly say? “Thank you for being honset with me,” I finally settle on. It feels woefully incompetent for the flurry of emotions at war within me. The horror of murder mixed with how bad I felt that a teenager had to-would even want to participate in that because he’d admitted his willingness before. The pang of sympathy for the person. For the life lost.

And yet, it did nothing to lessen his hold on my heart. 

I listen in on the radio. 

And feel nothing when Krum catches the snitch. Even as the sounds pour out from the radio of the stadium full of cheering fans.

“Would Master Regulus and his friend,” Kreacher says speaking up, having finished mending a pale pink settee. “Care for supper now?” The room looked less gloomy without the cobwebs and midnight black curtains. Even the grey walls were growing on me.

Ever since the kettle accident with Regulus, Kreacher had moved on from his thinly veiled insults and had at least been cordial. It would have been funny, how Kreacher went about the world as if he was some great butler from a show like upstairs/downstairs if it wasn’t for the fact he clearly hated all muggle things. Treating them as if they were as dangerous as basilisk venom and nothing more than dirt at the same time. 

Regulus doesn’t look like he’ll be up for saying anything anytime soon, his nose buried in another dusty ancient dark arts manuscript,  _ Prometheus, Runes, and the Ancient Greeks.  _

Not feeling very hungry at all, I answer the house elf, who always brought out a feast regardless of the fact that it was only ever us three and not a full manor, “just something light.” 

He nods, clasping his hands together, and then there’s steaming bowls of pumpkin soup on the coffee table that no one could get the discoloration from the dust completely off. Rotted grey in spots. And a loaf of bread carved up into thick slices, with a good plateful of butter. 

The elf then disappears, muttering about pruning and rot. 

I take a seat by the floor, minding the books Regulus has laid out, and grab a slice of bread, being generous with the butter. “Maybe we’re wrong and the sword is a horcrux,” I speak up. We’d ruled the sorting hat out immediately. Someone would have noticed, given how many students passed through Hogwarts over the years. 

“No,” Regulus says. With a wave of his wand, the books form a neat little stack on the floor, a tower of books. “Not if Harry Potter used it to kill the basilisk.” 

“That’s what I heard,” I point out, “you know how hearsay works. . .I could be wrong. I’m sure there’s things Percy didn’t tell Penelope to protect his siblings.” 

“Why did people think Harry Potter was the heir of slytherin,” Regulus frowns, before eating a spoonful of creamy pumpkin soup. Kreacher knew of a thousand ways to cook pumpkin and our relationship was too tenuous for me to complain without risking my life. As my mum liked to point out, you don’t mess with the people who make your food. 

I shrug. “People are bloody idiots. I guess the idea was that he had to be a really dark wizard to have survived Tom as a baby.” I play with the bowl of soup, waiting for it to cool down. Side-eying Regulus and wondering if he’d burned his tongue and was just trooping through the pain. Before remembering-

“Oh and Michelle said that during dueling club--that was the year Gildoroy Lockhart was our Professor. Penelope thought he was a complete twat. But Michelle was head over heels for him. Had us go stalk him so she could  _ bump into him-- _ well, Harry Potter was at the first session of the year and spoke to a snake. P-p-something she called it. Apparently that meant he had to be the heir of slytherin.” I shrug. “I think it would be so cool to talk to snakes, any animal really. Ducks have got to have some amazing stories of people being weird in parks.”

Regulus snorts, the line of his shoulders relaxing, as he eats. “There’s-I don’t even know where to start.”

I grin, feeling myself grow lighter as the air cleared between us. I hated when he pulled away. As if I would go running for the hills now. Like I hadn’t run off with him to off you-know-who. Or rather, what was left of you-know-who. 

“Parseltongue. It’s called being parseltongue. And you stalked a professor,” he teases, smirking. 

“Michelle did,” I protest. “I was just with her. And she was hardly the only one. All the girls went wild over Lockhart. He was a pompous ass though. From what I saw at least. I didn’t take defense for NEWTs.” 

“Being parseltongue was a common trait in slytherin’s descendants so I can see why students would have made the connection.” He grabs a slice of bread. 

A lightbulb turns on in my head, my mind connecting the dots. “Riddle. . .he was the heir of slytherin! It explains the first attacks in the early forties-when he would’ve been at school. You think his horcrux somehow,” I frown. “Could a horcrux have somehow opened the chamber again in 1992?” 

Regulus says seriously, “I would think so. Like I’ve said before, I don’t have all the answers. You-know-who’s only the second person in history to make horcruxes. Certainly the only one to make so many. I’m surprised the remnant of his soul was stable at all.” 

“I’m going to take a shot in the dark,” I tell him.

“Go on,” he says, listening to me intently, the way all people wish to be paid attention to, being taken seriously. 

“I think the diadem’s in Hogwarts hidden away. Don’t ask me how he got it into the castle or how it’s stayed hidden for this long. . .actually, there're so many spots in Hogwarts. . .so many things piled up over the ages, I’m sure an old tiara would’ve gone unnoticed. Especially since no one would be looking for Ravenclaw’s diadem in Hogwarts when it’s supposed to be lost.”

He rests his jaw against his hand, leaning forward on our makeshift dining table. This table was unsalvageable, but for now it was fine. It did the job even if it was an eyesore. “It’s incredibly risky to break into Hogwarts without any proof.”

“We broke into Gringotts on your hunch,” I point out. “And we don’t have to rush. I just. . .I-there’s years between when Riddle leaves school and reappears as you-know-who. He could’ve gotten into Hogwarts.”

He runs a hand through his hair and I can see the gears turning in his eyes, in the line forming between his brows as he thinks it over. 

I pop open my sketchbook, drawing what I imagine this room to have looked like at the height of Grimmauld Place’s glory. It’s good line practice, and gives me something to do. The radio continues to play sounds of quidditch festivities. I’d rather be listening to Pulp on the radio. Or Madonna. 

Slowly I finish my supper. Feeling much fuller than I expected for it having been soup. But then I did add a load of butter. 

The sketch isn’t half bad. Taking the elements already in the room and sprucing them up a bit. Placing the settees closer together. And armchair here and there. Art on the walls instead of the horrible mirror that insulted anyone who happened to be walking by. Like some things inside the house, the years had left it to rot beyond repair. 

I’m sick of listening to drunk wizards claim they knew Ireland would win, one witch yanking the microphone and yelling in celtic, starting up the old Irish resistance songs. So I get up, off the ground, stretching out my legs, waiting for the numb feeling in my left leg to pass, feeling way too comfortable lounging around in a faded t shirt that must have once belonged to a young boy but worked perfectly as a snug top and worn in red joggers, before going to change the radio channel. 

It had only taken the slightest tinkering to make the radio receive muggle stations as well. All it had needed was a third setting. 

I’m about to turn the knob to  _ muggle,  _ when the drowsy drunken irish ballads, I was pretty sure the wizard reporting had drunk more than his share of firewhiskey on the job, turn into screams. Shouting comes through the radio, indecipherable. 

The reporter’s voice is lost among the chaos.

Fear grips my heart at the sudden change. Like a jump scare, like tension building as you took the stares down to a dark basement, hair standing up on the back of my neck. 

I turn the volume up on the radio, glancing over at Regulus. 

He’s already gotten up, making his way closer to the radio. Closer to me. 

For a minute, there’s only static. A few yells too far away to make out. The sounds of people running, but nothing that paints a clear picture of what’s going on in the English countryside. At the world cup. 

I find my hand reaching for my wand, some tension in my jaw relaxing when I feel the wooden handle in the palm of my hand. 

Then even the sounds cut out, giving way to white noise. 

I glance over at him, having taken the spot next to me, staring intently at the radio as if he could make it give him the answers. He must feel my burning look directed his way because he looks over at me, locking gazes with mine. 

Anxiety balls up in my throat. And I just know it’s going to be something horrible. After hearing those screams. And I just want to know. Not knowing is driving me as mad as listening to the white noise over the radio waves. 

I reach for his hand, seeking comfort. 

Regulus glances down, startled out of his own distressed state. But when he realizes it’s only me, he takes my hand without hesitation as we wait for something. For the radio to spark back to life and explain. For the news. 

Wizards should really get with the times and get film and television. 

His thumb rubs soothing circles into the back of my hand as we listen, waiting. 

It feels like a small eternity has passed before the radio crackles to life again. 

With a whisper, the wizard reports, “it-it appears that the. . .,” I can hear him gulp over the radio. I don’t even know the reporter's name. “It appears that the dark mark has appeared over the Cup grounds,” the wizard finally gets out in a stammer. 

I inhale sharply, the ugly weight of fear clamping down on my chest. How! Why! Who would-

Regulus pulls me against his side, holding me close, wrapping his arm around me. 

I sink into the warmth of his embrace. My hands grow cold and shaky with the news as I wrap my arms around his waist, wanting nothing more than to curl up in bed but feeling sleep recede. More awake in a sharp panicked way than I had been since that day at Gringotts. 

“I’ve got you Jane,” he whispers tenderly as we wait for further news. “I’ve got you.”

It does little to ease the panic taking root in my chest. And the pangs of sympathy I feel for everyone in the crowd. All those people _ there. _ They must be scared out of their minds. 

All they wanted to do was watch a quidditch match. 

They weren’t hurting anyone. 

I feel tears start to form, a burning in the tip of my nose, as tears threaten to fall from my eyes. 

Minutes pass. 

More minutes. 

Finally, the radio crackles again, this time, the reporter sounds steadier, or maybe he’s in shock. “The dark mark has appeared over the quidditch world cup festivities. The crowd panicked as death eaters made their first appearance since ‘81. Aurors were quick to take control of the situation and douse the worst of the damage before anyone could be hurt. As of now, there are no injuries and no deaths. We will continue to report as the situation unravels.”

And then, elevator music. 

A poor cover of Christina Warbeck. 

Tears fall from my eyes, burning their way down my cheeks. 

“Shh,” Regulus whispers gently, “you’re okay.” 

“How can you say that,” I mumble between tears, my voice all cracked with emotion, “they-their holidays ruined.” Which was the understatement of the century. But I was too caught up in this deep distressed sympathy to try and explain myself. 

He seemed to understand without me saying what I meant. “No one’s hurt. And. . .he’s not back. It’s not you-know-who. It’s likely just a cruel group of wizards. The aurors will find them.”

“How can you be so sure,” I ask, leaning back so I can meet his gaze, my arms still wrapped around his middle, enveloped in his arms. 

“I’d know,” he reminds me quietly. “My mark would have burned. It was a butch of twats. Nothing more. The majority of the die hard believers are locked up in Azkaban. Only the cowards are left.” 

“And you,” I point out, bringing my hands to pat his chest softly. He was neither a die hard death eater or a coward. He was better than the lot of them. 

And me,” he agrees, cupping my cheek in his hand. 

I lean into his hand, tilting my head. My heartbeat calms down, grows steady in my chest with each inhale and exhale.

“We should go to bed,” Regulus says after a moment. “There’s nothing we can do for those people from here but continue to destroy the horcruxes. The prophet will have more information by morning as well.” 

I frown, wiping the tears from my eyes. I no longer felt on the verge of a breakdown, but I still felt that shaky panic in my hands. There was no way I was going to sleep anytime soon. Not with the news of this attack. “I doubt I’ll be getting any sleep tonight,” I confess in a small voice. 

“Then we can wait for more news over the radio upstairs,” he compromises. “If we’re going to be miserable. We can at least be miserable in comfort. I’m tired of sitting on the floor.” 

I smile. It’s a small smile, the corners of my lips barely managing to lift. “Alright.” 

He doesn’t let go of my hand as we walk up the stairs. 

I feel a little embarrassed at the state of my room. It’s not dirty, per say, but it is messy. An artists room. My sketches and paint studies pinned up on the walls: having replaced Sirius’ posters of barely clad birds. 

“I think Sirius had a radio,” Regulus says, also looking as lost as I felt with the amount of things his brother had stored here. 

“Doubt it,” I manage, sitting down on my bed. At least I’d bothered to make it this morning. “I’ve already looked through all his stuff.” I flush red in embarrassment. This wasn’t a charity shop of yard sale to look through freely after all. “Do you think he’ll mind much?”

“Jane,” Regulus says, amused, as he looks through the cabinet I’d set the records and record player on. “My brother hasn’t stepped foot in this house since he was 16. I don’t even know if I’ll ever see him again, and if I do. . .whether or not you looked through his things will be the least of our worries.” 

“Well if you think it's alright.” I pick at the loose thread on the red blanket. Something I really shouldn’t do in this house. Things were already falling apart enough as it is without me adding to it. 

“It's fine,” he says, grabbing a record off the shelf. “It’s like I explained to Kreacher. You aren’t a guest in this house. This is your home too. For as long as you’re here.” With the care he takes doing even the simplest of tasks, he slides the record out of its sleeve and places it on the spindle before he lowers the arm,placing the needle against the record. 

The first few notes of ABBA’s self titled record starts playing. 

“I did miss them the first time around. But the Irish women I lived with were huge fans. ABBA. Donna Summer. Disco in general.” He takes a seat on the bed next to me. 

I snort. It wasn’t music that fit the dark mood, but it was working. I was feeling more at ease the more the music, turned down low, played. “And when was that?” I wonder about the years he spent wandering around the UK before coming to live in Blackpool. 

He shrugs, laying down next to me. “‘80, maybe ‘81. My memory’s not the best. But I do remember them spending most of their time making jokes at my expense for being English. It was. . .Diedra. Her sister Erin. And their friend Moira, the woman who found me on the beach. They took me in for a few months. Wore sequins and glitter to the chip shop.”

I close my eyes, listening to the music, laying back in my bed. It was larger than my bed back home. There’s no way you can be sad while listening to ABBA. That’s probably why he’d chosen this band. You could easily be sad to the Beatles or Led Zeppelin. And forget Pink Floyd. That was just begging for a good cry on a night like this one. 

“Do you ever talk to them,” I ask “all the people you’ve met?” 

He shakes his head. “I wasn’t the easiest person to be friends with. You have to understand Jane. I-it wasn’t like a lightbulb moment. It took me a long time to unlearn everything I had grown up with. All the pureblood prejudice. And I wasn’t in the best mental state.”

I bite my lip, digesting his words. Trying to imagine him at my age, reeling from his near death experience. He’d already explained he’d been in a muggle hospital for almost two years. 

“And it wasn’t safe,” Regulus adds after a moment. “I was in hiding after all. And-And I was careful not to get to close.”

I smile, turning my head to face him. “Till me.”

“Till Edith actually,” he corrects smugly. Dick. 

“Oi,” I cry, “what am I? Chopped liver?”

Completely unguarded, Regulus lets out a bark-like laugh. 

Once he collects himself, he admits, “you’re a flobberworm that won’t die.”

I snort, “flobberworms are nearly impossible to kill.” 

He reaches for my hand, intertwining his fingers with mine. 

“You’d tell me,” I whisper quietly, looking up at the ceiling, still painted bright gold, like the gleam of sunlight. “If it burned right. . .your mark.”

He nods. Then adds, “I can show you. If you want to see it that is?”

My eyes search his face, seeing complete seriousness as he steals himself, raising his guard once more as he tries to mask the nervousness he feels. It doesn’t fool me. I know him too well. 

A tattoo he got when he was 16 wasn’t going to send me running. Not when I knew the kind of man he was. And I loved this man. As a friend. Maybe as more too. 

I nod, “okay.” 

Regulus sits up, slowly rolling up the sleeve of his hunter green t shirt, revealing for the first time since I’ve known him, his bare arm. The scars from the inferi slowly think out halfway up his arm. Not nearly as many scars as his hands had. 

I sit up, curiosity itching in my mind. I know, and I’m still holding my breath. I swallow thickly, as he turns his arm, revealing his inner forearm. And the ugly grey mark. Almost dark enough to be black.

A skull at the top, nearest the crook of his arm, with a snake in place of a jaw. The snake's body is coiling down. The creature's mouth extended as if it was about to bite. 

“Can I,” I ask him, glancing up as my hand reaches for his arm, hovering in midair. 

Regulus shakes his head violently, color draining from his face. In haste, he shoves the sleeve of his shirt back down, laying back onto the bed, eyes shut. 

I follow his lead, curling up on my side. Thinking. 

About the boy who was Tom Riddle. The people who’d earlier been getting drunk at the cup. Had the people behind the attack already been planning it? Had they known even as Ireland played Bulgaria that later on they’d be attacking people? 

We had to figure out the last two horcruxes. 

Stop Voldemort from ever rising again. 

I reach for Regulus’ hand, intertwining his fingers with mine. “We’ll figure it out.”

His eyes open slowly, surprise written over his features, in his silver eyes, when he sees me still there, lying next to him. 

The truth was, when I offered to come with him. I hadn’t understood Riddle or the terror he caused. But now, now I felt a burning fury in my chest to destroy the horcruxes. I understood the severity of the situation. What we were doing. 

Too many people had been hurt. And I wouldn’t let there be more bodies. More lives ruined. 

Not more kids like Harry Potter would grow up without parents. 

Regulus squeezes my hand. 

And I close my eyes, letting the music block out all other thoughts for the night. 

We fall asleep listening to ABBA. 


	20. Part II: just this once

“Yes mum,” I reply over the payphone, “I got your package all right.”

“You know you can always come back home,” my mum says, like a liar. “I know doing. . . .art is hardly a steady career and probably doesn’t pay much so we’re here to support you.”

“I’m fine, really. And rents fine,” I tell her even though I was not paying rent. “I’ve got a part time job at this wizard library,” I make up. Researching was sort of like working in a library, right? I could hardly tell her what I was really up to. Not when the prophet’s front page had at last been taken over by the death eater riot during the quidditch world cup, finally the coverage to the breakin at Gringotts had died down. “I’m good. And I’ve really been loving all the CDs you guys got me from your trip. Mana and Luis Miguel especially.” 

“Your cousins picked them out,” mum says. 

“Grandma’s alright then,” I ask, not remembering the woman who is my grandmother very well. 

“Mhm,” mum answers, metal pots clanging in the background, “she’s good. Gave everyone quiet the scare. Your dad especially. He wants to visit again next summer. Not as long of course, but wants to see his family more often. Maybe you could come this time. If your art job doesn’t keep you to busy.”

I frown. “Maybe.” I had no clue what I would be doing next summer. Would we still be looking for horcruxes? We still had no lead on the last one. And I’d only guessed at the location of the diadem. 

“Well,” mum says, “don’t be a stranger. I’m sure your dad’ll be heartbroken he missed you. Do try and get a landline in soon.”

“Um, yeah. Working on it. Magical homes aren’t fond of muggle tech,” I admit. Even though I haven’t brought up the need for a phone to Regulus. It wasn’t a high priority at the moment. The only people to call were mum and dad. “But I’m sure I’ll figure it out eventually.”

“Well,” mum says, and I can see her from even over the phone, “how do you get a hold of someone during an emergency?”

“Floo. Patronus,” I list off, “Apparate.”

She sighs. “Take care honey.”

“Always,” I answer back. When the line goes dead. I apparate straight back to Grimmauld Place, not even bothering to open the stall door. 

I was anxious to get back home and continue on the problem of the diadem. We’d crossed off all the highly trafficked places at Hogwarts. The classrooms, common rooms, the great hall, and all the places students usually hang out in. The grounds and the library. The classrooms near the library that students often took over. 

This’ll be the first september in seven years that I’m not taking the hogwarts express. I find myself missing the surety of school.

There, I knew what I was doing. 

Regulus is helping Kreacher tear down the wallpaper in the entryway. Well, the wallpaper still hanging up. Most of it has come loose. 

I kick off my shoes and place them on the rack that looked a little too much like some magical creature's ribs for my comfort. The place was starting to look much more habitable after all the cleaning we’d been doing for the last two months, between the horcrux hunting. 

The lights were now re-charmed to turn on when someone appeared in the halls. 

And Kreacher had gotten rid of most of the doxies. 

Still, there was a boggart in one of the upstairs closets no one wanted to deal with. And eventually we’d have to start throwing out all the rotten and unsalvageable furniture and decor that Kreacher kept taking up to his attic instead of throwing away. I was pretty sure Regulus would never have the heart to make him do it though. 

“What about the room where all lost things in hogwarts go,” I wonder aloud, remembering the racks and stacks of things in the room on the seventh floor. Robes from the 17th century like those the paintings up by the astronomy tower wore. Cauldrons that were more rust than cauldron and vials of potions that might still be usable if you were willing to try them. 

It had been a thrifters paradise. 

I had nicked rugs and blankets and other homey things for my dorm while at Hogwarts. 

“The what,” Regulus says, ripping down a section of the eggplant striped wallpaper. A long scroll coming loose with a very satisfying tear. He vanishes the offending paper, before helping Kreacher with the next section. 

“You know,” I repeat, going over to help, ducking under the portrait of his mother with practiced speed, and pulling my hair up into a bun. I should’ve hung up my waxed jacket too. I tackle the next section of wall, already imaging a floral pattern for the hall. 

I’d done some studies, but none I was fully satisfied with. 

“That one room on the seventh floor. It’s not always there but there's tons of stuff. Like a flea market. But not a regular old flea market. Like one with all the good things you never actually find when you go to one.”

He frowns, thinking as he vanishes another piece of ripped wallpaper. Kreacher ahead of us, unsticking the yellowed bits that refused to budge. “I have no clue what you’re referring to.”

“Really,” I ask, having fun with all the wallpaper ripping. It was satisfying to pull down a complete section in one go. He always seemed to know a lot. Then again, he was a bookworm. 

Regulus nods. “I’ve run into my fair share of trick doors and portraits, but never a vanishing room at Hogwarts. Are you sure you just couldn’t find it later.”

I shake my head. “No. I remembered where it was. And it wasn’t always the same. When I first found it, during my first year. It was. . .well it was Blackpool. Except not really. There were windows with the view of Blackpool. And the room was cozy, with lots of pillows and blankets. It wasn’t ever the charity shop room until. . .third or fourth year when I started getting into thrifting.”

Kreacher peels the last bit of wallpaper off. 

“I-I mean did you ever see a diadem in there,” Regulus says thoughtfully. “And did many people know about this room?”

I shake my head. “I never even told Leandra about it. It just seemed. . .like my spot of the castle. But I’m sure others have found it over the years. I mean, the stuff got there somehow. Which is why I think that things that get lost at Hogwarts ends up there. I lost the coolest area 51 t shirt one year when I packed up in a rush! It had this stitched alien on the front. Big blue green head and all. And on the back it said  _ will shoot at UFOs.”  _

“It-well, it’s a better lead than anything else,” he admits. “But i still don’t think we should take the risk of breaking into Hogwarts without at least being 60 percent sure. Dumbledore isn’t the kind of man that wouldn’t take precautions after the news of the cup and Girngotts.”

I grin, “but we were the ones responsible for Gringotts. First successful robbery in its history.Do you think I could put that on my CV? Like do wizard crimes have an expiration date like the muggle crimes do?”

“Don’t put robbery on your CV,” Regulus states, shaking his head. “I should think that would be obvious.” 

We make our way up the stairs to the sitting room on the third floor. Kreacher had arranged the rescued settee and armchairs like little islands strewn about the large room. It made conversation difficult if we sat in different chairs. 

But no matter how often we smushed two armchairs together, Kreacher would put them back according to his taste. 

“I know that,” I giggle. “Maybe we should go back to square one, no not one. More like square two. What did our friend Tom do after he graduated? There has to be something there. I mean, his whole Voldemort idea took time.”

Regulus snorts, “you think he got a part time job or something?”

“Yes! Exactly. And maybe it’s connected with what he did later? With the horcruxes I mean, not the whole mass murder. Can you imagine Riddle working at Mcdonald’s! No, he’d have hexed a customer on his first day,” I realize. He’d hadn’t been a boy to take other people’s shit. Much less as a grown adult without the trace. 

To my surprise, he says, “duel me,” taking his stance with ease, wand held in his hand with a flexible grip. 

I sigh, bracing myself. He’d been in a mood for the last few days and I couldn’t puzzle out what was setting him off. He’d had his nose buried in dusty books with yellowed pages, and I doubt he’d have remembered to eat if Kreacher and I hadn’t dragged him out of his room. 

Portego, I summon wordlessly, my wand only making the most minute of movements, all the better to keep your opponent from knowing what spell you were casting. 

He doesn’t waste a moment. A jet of red light hits my shield, and I strengthen it immediately, just in time to hear him shout, “confringo!”

My shield doesn’t hold, and I have to duck to avoid getting hit by a jelly legs curse, before I can summon another shield. 

“Evanesco,” he says steadily, aiming at my shield once more, closing in on me. 

I let my shield fall, deciding to put the pink velvet settee between us. It had survived ten years of neglect. It could probably survive our duel. I shield myself once more. 

Waiting for an opening. 

He was too quick for me. A ton of years of dueling experience more than me. 

We’d practiced dueling enough times for me to have learned that the hard way. 

I’d yet to stun or disarm him. 

“Mobilicathedra,” he says easily, getting the settee out of the way in seconds. 

But it’s long enough for me to cast a spell. “Impedimenta,” I yell, aiming for the spot in front of him, where the settee had been. 

I raise another shield for myself, the spell coming naturally by now after all the practice I’d had casting portego nonverbally. 

“Jane,” Regulus complains, all while smirking like a complete dick, “you have to go on the offensive or you’ll never win.” 

It’s enough time for me to cast. Nonverbally. 

_ Expelliarmus.  _

His wand goes flying out of his hand towards me. 

Except it slips out of my hand when I go to catch it. 

My face burns when I grab it off the ground. But it doesn’t make my smile any smaller. I’m beaming from finally having beaten him, when I look over at him. 

He recovers quickly. “So you can fight back.” 

I roll my eyes, twirling his wand in my hand. “Now will you tell me what’s been on your mind these past few days. And don’t give me any rubbish about how you’re fine. You let your tea get cold this morning.” I take a seat at the nearest armchair. The cushion’s incredibly squishy. A bronze brocade fabric that still smelled a bit like dust from having been folded up for years. 

Regulus moves the ottoman near my seat, before taking his wand from my outstretched hand. “I have. . .a theory.” He pauses dramatically. 

I nod, making a go on motion with my hand, “Okay. What does that mean?”

He purses his lips, frowning. 

“Regulus?”

“The Potter family has never had any parseltongues in the family. I checked.”

“So,” I prompt, knowing he wouldn't just bring something up for no reason. Even if he was choosing to tell me in the most dramatic way instead of being straightforward. 

He leans forward, clasping his hands together as he finally says, “Do you ever wonder how Harry Potter not only survived the killing curse but also defeated the dark lord as a baby?” Which didn't actually explain anything. 

“Yes,” I shrug. “Who hasn't? I just figured something went wrong on you-know-who's end.” It was probably the largest mystery in this century. How a baby survived the killing curse.

Binns had taught us some prevalent theories. Namely that you know who had somehow messed up, either in casting or something interferes that caused the killing curse to hit him instead of Harry. But no one really knew. 

“Remember what I said about horcruxes taking up the same amount of soul every time,” Regulus prompts. “It doesn't matter if it's number 1 or 6.”

I bite my lip, thinking. “Well, I mean it's nice to know that souls do exist but I dunno what that has to do with Harry Potter.”

He runs a hand through his hair, fixing it. The duel had messed up his neat mop top, combed back and out of his face. “No. It's not a soul in the muggle sense of heaven and hell and all that. It's. . .its just another body part. Like gravity, you don't have to visibly see it to know it exists. Anyway,” he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Making seven horcruxes would've left you-know-who with a very shattered soul.”

“So in theory,” I thinking out loud, slumping in my seat, drawing my knees up to my chest. Talking about dark magic, while interesting, always gave me a bad feeling. We had learned so little about it in school. Only that it was evil. And bad. “In theory there has to be a limit of how many horcruxes one can make before you run out of soul.”

“Exactly! Except it appears you can't even get to that point,” Regulus explains. “Because the soul, after x number of horcruxes is so ripped up, it becomes unstable.” 

“You think that's what interfered with you-know-who's killing curse? When he tried to kill Harry Potter? A bit of his soul just went flying.” It does explain a lot of the holes in the theories Professor Binns has given us for class. 

Regulus snorts. “That's one way to put it. A horcrux requires a murder by the wizard or witch attempting to make the horcrux.” He shifts, sitting up. “I think by the time he went to kill the Potters his soul was unstable, and when he performed the killing curse, a bit of his soul went flying as you so eloquently put it, and created an accidental horcrux.”

I finally put it together, horror dawning on me. “You're talking about Harry Potter aren't you.”

He nods. “The only living person left. A much more attractive container for a soul then an inanimate object. The ancient greeks and egyptians agreed on that. And there's also a rather famous japanese curse wherein they would trap a soul in a vase, usually requiring a death, but that was for a complete soul. Not the exact same function of a horcrux,” Regulus says, starting to go on a tangent. The breadth of his dark arts knowledge was impressive. And I had to wonder if it would've be practical for Hogwarts to at least teach some introductory course into what they were supposed to be defending themselves against. 

At least a NEWT level class. 

“-I don't think the kitsune curse has been used since the late 1800s in Japan. But I do think there was a famous incident in the early 1910s of a Russian wizard being punished that way by the Tsarist Ministry.” 

I swallow thickly. “Riddle can't be killed as long as there's still a horcrux left,” I state out loud. “He’ll keep on clinging to life. Until he can return.” The taste of bitter metal filled my mouth, much like when you bite down to hard on a fork and the metal’s sour tang overloads your tastebuds. We had to destroy all the horcruxes.

Harry Potter was a horcrux. 

“That's what you've been up to haven't you,” I realize, connecting the dots, “why you've been reading all those dark arts books. You're looking for a way to kill Riddle's soul while leaving Harry Potter alive. Have you figure it out?”

He shakes his head, “it's-nothing like this has ever happened, but I would like to. . .I don't want to kill a child unless we absolutely have to.”

Bloody hell. 

“I'm sure you'll figure it out,” I offer, before continuing on. “Do you think he's the seventh horcrux then or that he's an extra eighth?” 

“I think he was an accident. And I really have no clue how to start going about getting a piece of soul out of the boy Jane,” he says, rubbing his temples with his fingers. “Could I use runes? Enchant some holder to extract it or use a potion only I'm rubbish at potions. . .I don't think a spell will cut it. . .” 

I frown, getting up and kneeling on the floor in front of him. Slowly, giving him time to pull away if he wants, I move my hands towards him, cupping his face in my hands. “You'll figure it out. I know you will. And then I'll help you kidnap Harry,” I tease, “after I figure out how we're going to infiltrate Hogwarts for the diadem. You know, divide and conquer.”

Regulus smiles softly, leaning into my touch, “isn't divide and conquer how everyone dies in slasher movies?”

“You watch slasher movies,” I ask, not being able to picture that at all. 

“One or two. I much prefer something entertaining like Beetlejuice or Back to the Future,” he admits. 

“I had you pegged as liking those long drawn out movies all the critics rave about that are three hours long and nothing happens but someone cries at the end,” I ramble. 

He laughs, “do you like slasher movies?”

“It's fun to yell at the screen,” I reply, wanting very much to lean in and kiss him. It was a bit uncomfortable to be kneeled down, but I didn't care when we were this close together. 

It was like waking up the night after the death eater riot to Regulus still asleep. And the feeling of knowing I had someone who'd have my back no matter what there. I felt loved and protected. 

And now, here, I could feel the butterflies in my stomach. How my heart sped up when he looked at me like that. Smiling with his entire being. 

“Well I hope you don't do that at the theater,” he teases. 

“Oh never! I just rent from blockbuster like a normal person.” I could. 

The moment’s never been more perfect and I don't think he'd. . .I don't know, all I know is how I feel and that I want him to know for better or worse. 

My hands cupping his cheeks gently. 

It doesn’t take much to close the distance between us, I just have to lean forward. Tilting my head, and pressing my lips against his. 

It’s nothing like my first kiss at hogwarts. 

My eyes flutter shut.

He stills in my hands for a few seconds, as I kiss him, feeling the light giddiness in my chest give way to pure warmth and love. And then, he kisses me back, leaning into our kiss, his soft lips moving against mine. 

A moment of pure bliss as I finally get what I’ve been dreaming of for months. And the bonus of knowing that my feelings are shared, as his lips move against mine. Regulus. 

I could stay here for the rest of my life even if my legs had started to go numb. 

Regulus pulls away, pulling back out of my hold, a heartsick look in his heavy lidded eyes, the same ones that often looked amused as I rambled incredibly off topic at him regardless if it was about Michelle or my latest home arts and craft project and I could feel my chest constrict as he continued to look at me like that. Like I might disappear at any second. 

I didn’t want to hear the next word out of his lips, b ut neither could I run away, r ooted to the spot by him, watching him with wide eyes, waiting. 

“No,” he whispers gently, giving me the slightest headshake, before repeating again, “no.” I couldn’t tell if it was for his benefit or mine. All I knew was the sting in my eyes, my face growing hot as I frowned, lower lip trembling. 

I sit back: increasing the distance between us. 

“Jane,” he says in a small tight voice, running a hand through his hair, messing it up. “We can’t. . .I’m too old for you.”

“I don’t care,” I say in a rush, “Besides, wasn’t you who said that you’re not that old at all. Thirty isn’t old.” Hope felt too fragile for this moment, but I couldn’t help it. I hoped he’d just. . .I was in love with him and I knew he felt something deeper than friendship for me. Wasn’t that all that matters? 

“Thirty three,” he says quietly, looking down at his hands, clasped together in his lap, before he fidgets in his seat, meeting my pained gaze. I was caught in the moment right before heartbreak. An ache in my chest growing by the second. Every second he- 

“People will talk-,” he tries.

As if I gave a fig what people thought. “Let them,” I reply, voice cracking. 

“Jane,” he says once more, shifting back in his seat, turning from me. Closing off. “It’s not just that. I’m a death eater for merlin’s sake.”

“Former,” I say in a small voice. 

He ignores me. 

“I’ve. . .I’ve done terrible things I can never take back,” he continues on as if he hadn’t told me as much before, as if I hadn’t stayed by his side even then. “You deserve someone better. A better man than me.” 

He was selling himself woefully short. 

And it was pissing me off. 

“I don’t want anyone else,” I cry out. 

“That’s what you think now,” Regulus states, still not looking at me, as if he could know how I felt better than I knew myself. “But. . .you will meet other people. Someone who is worthy of you. Who can give you things I cannot.”

I get off the ground, sick of hearing this. Not wanting to hear him talk down to me as if I was a child and not the girl who’d survived a dragon. I knew what I wanted. It wasn’t my fault that he was being so stubborn, refusing to even give this thing between us a chance. “Don’t,” I utter harshly. “Don’t act like you’re doing me a favor. I know how I feel and I know what I want. Don’t make up excuses just because you’re too much of a coward to even try!” 

I don’t bother staying around to hear his response: apparating to the first floor, shoving my feet into my tennis shoes before rushing out the door, leaving a streaming portrait of Walburga Black yelling about mudbloods defiling the house of her forefathers. 

I can’t bring myself to care. 

My face still burns but it’s no longer from a well of hurt and yearning, the tears welling on my eyes subsiding as I walk aimlessly into the busy London streets, glad for the anonymity that a huge city like London provided. I’m hurt and annoyed and angry and maybe tomorrow I’ll be heartbroken, but right now, the burning annoyance wins.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> regulus' understanding of gravity is like a 3/10 but he tried.


	21. Part II: post grads

It’s Penelope who opens the door. Her black hair pin straight despite the fact that I’ve obviously woken her up. She’s wearing a set of pajamas, pink with little sheep on them. Her already small teardrop curve shaped eyes made smaller as she squints in the dim light of the hall. “Jane?”

It hadn’t been hard to find the building she was living in. It stuck out compared to the other muggle townhouses and buildings in the suburb North of London. Starting with the purple brick facade and ending with the fact the door into the building had no knob like Grimmauld Place. 

“It’s me,” I say with a small fragile smile. Sticking my hand out in the air. “Ta da.” I had a few sickles in my pocket, my wand, and maybe a few muggle bills. That ‘s all I had to my name. 

I hadn’t meant to be out this long. But as the day wore on, going back seemed like a gut wrenching idea. I wasn’t ready. 

So I was really hoping Michelle and Penelope would let me crash on their couch for the night. 

“Jnae,” she says with a fond sigh, letting me inside her flat. “Only you would show up unannounced without even a bag.”

I go along with it. Pretending that it’s just me being me and not the fact I’ve been secretly living in London trying to finish offing you-know-who. “Yes well, my parents got back from Argentina and they’ve been on me about getting a proper job. Is it okay if I crash at yours? It’s probably only for the night.”

“Of course,” Penelope says, rolling her eyes, stretching out her arms over her head. “You’re my friend. Michelle’s out. Got another date.”

“What happened to-,” I start to ask. 

“Oh,” she waves off, grabbing an extra blanket from the cupboard. The most organized cupboard i’ve ever seen complete with labels warning Michelle to leave things the way she found them. “He asked her to meet his family and she panicked.” 

I snort. 

Penelope asks, “do you want to borrow some pijamas?”

“I don’t know,” I tease, “are they all matching sets with cute little animals? Because I’m feeling them a lot.”

Penelope shakes her head. “Yes. But I’ve got a couple of old shirts if you think you’d be more comfortable.”

“I’ll take the pajama set. I’ve always wondered what it’s like to be the sort of person who wears matching pajamas. It’s very Ravenclaw of you,” I tease, taking the blanket from her setting up the couch myself. Regulus also happened to wear matching pajamas. 

She rolls her eyes, accio-ing a spare set of pajamas. “Help yourself if you need anything. I’m really just wanting to get back to sleep. Got an early morning tomorrow. There’s a massive order for destaining polish.”

I scrunch up my nose. That sounded incredibly boring. “Well, at least you’re being an adult.” She’d practically been a mini adult since we’d met at school. 

Penelope laughs, “I wish. I hate it. My job’s so boring and my hands ache all the time. I’d quit but I don’t have anything lined up. Honestly I thought after Hogwarts my life would start but it’s so dull. I feel like I’ve gone my whole life waiting to be 17 and now I just. . .letdown. I dunno. You probably don’t want to hear it.”

I frown, “No. No. Let’s hear it then.” I pat the cheap but new looking settee with my hand. “Let it all out Penelope.” 

She shrugs, taking a seat next to me. “I’m just awful at making friends. And I’m starting to wish I’d go out and get up to things like Michelle but I don’t want to invite myself along and the few times I’ve been invited out with the women at my job I’ve. . .I dunno I don’t know how to have fun I guess.” She looks on the verge of tears. 

I don’t hesitate to wrap my arms around her, hugging her against me. “It’s okay. I feel just as lost I mean. I dunno how I’d pay for anything if I wasn’t living at home.” Mooching off my rich friend I’m currently avoiding. “But,” I try, coming up with an idea to cheer her up. “How about this. What’s something you’ve been wanting to do for ages but haven’t gotten around to doing yet.”

“No,” Penelope whines. “It’s silly.”

“Promise I won’t laugh,” I insist. 

“I’ve been meaning to go to the woolwitch common preserve,” Penelope says in a rush. “It’s-I know its silly. But I want to visit their magical creature sanctuary. There’s a bunch of magical plants too.” 

“Let’s go tomorrow.”

“I work,” she protests. 

“You can take a nap on the bus ride there,” I insist. 

“You mean floo there,” she says, tilting her head. 

“We’ll take a bus there,” I say, “that way you can get a bit of rest. Or we can floo there. I’m sure there a good patch of grass we can lay under. But we’re going.”

“Okay,” she smiles. “Now I really do have to go back to sleep.”

“Okay,” I say, starting to change into her pajamas. Seven years of having roommates at school got rid of any shyness about changing in front of people. “See you in the morning.” I hoped Michelle was back when I woke up. I had no clue what she was up to. Her letters were mostly about the antics she got up to. 

In the daylight, I get a better look round their flat. For about ten seconds before Michelle’s yelling, “Jane you dick why didn't you tell me you were coming!” Then she’s hugging me right before she smacks my head. 

I’m barely waking up and I’ve already been smacked. I laugh, feeling a little hollow and the second of confusion of not having woken up in my own bed. Not that Sirius’ room was mine, but it sure felt like it was. 

And then I remember why I spent the night here. 

When she’s done crushing me against her, she gets up, nicking a scone from the tiny cupboard they call kitchen. Their flat’s got to be smaller than the size of our dorm at hogwarts. The kitchen was an alcove off the living room. I could see Michelle’s room, door left open, with little room for more than a bed and a dresser, just enough to squeeze out of the room. 

“I would’ve,” I tell her, “I just wasn’t planning on it.”

“Tescos is amazing,” Michelle rushes out, “just like I thought it’d be in muggle studies. And so is Mcdonalds! Oh, we should go after I get off work.” She somehow manages to eat and talk without talking with her mouth full, as she searches around for her things. A shoe stuffed under the cheap new couch I’d slept on. 

“Where’re you working,” I ask, getting off the couch and rifling through their sparse kitchen. There was the bag of scones from Tescos, a jar of lemon marmalade that was proudly proclaimed to be brewed by witches at home, and a half eaten takeout container. 

“Pub,” Michelle grins, “out by Camden Town. It’s a bit too far for me to apparate. I am complete shite at apparition after all. Have my leftovers from last night. Haven’t gotten around to get food this week.”

I snort. It didn’t look like they ever used the tiny stove. More fit for Kreacher than feeding two grown witches. But the window did have a nice view of the small quiet street. “Don’t worry. I’ll manage. Me and Penelope are going out after she gets back, wanna come?”

Michelle shrugs. “I’m always game for a bit of an outing. Surprises Penelope is. She’s been quite the banshee as of late.”

“Screaming?”

She makes a face. “No! Crying. She like hates her job and I keep telling her to just quit and find a new one but she won’t listen. And she wastes her day off just sleeping in all day. I think she wrote her ex. Percy, but he didn’t reply.”

“Ouch,” I mutter, pouring water into their kettle, rifling around for a teabag or something. “I dunno. I’ll probably go back to sleep as soon as you leave.” I admit. 

“ ‘s long as you don’t do it every day,” Michelle shrugs. “Go out with her. I’ll see if I finally go to Tescos again. It’s a dangerous store. I always come out with more than I planned. Too many crisps.” 

“The perfect breakfast,” I grin, finally finding a few tea bags shoved into the bottom of a drawer along with their sugar, salt, and a bottle of whiskey. Definitely Michelle’s. 

“See you later ya,” Michelle laughs. “I’ll buy you a drink and we’ll go out tonight. I think there’s an open mic night at the Leaky Cauldron. That’s always a laugh.”

“Michelle!” I shake my head. 

“What! Half the people can’t sing. Dunno how they think they’ll be the next Celestina Warbeck or worse. They want to be the Weird Sisters.” 

“Oasis is better than the Weird Sisters,” I note, forgoing the sugar on the basis I wasn’t sure wether it was sugar or salt and was feeling too sleepy to taste test it. 

“Who?”

“You know,” I shrug, “Oasis. I definitely made you listen to them at school. Their new album just came out. It’s sort of amazing.” 

“We’re listening to it when I get back. I know,” Michelle says, grabbing her bag, “I’ll get a bottle of wine and some takeout and we’ll have a listen tonight.”

“Alright.” I sip at my tea, deciding I was going back to sleep. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with anything today. It would also be the first day since I’d left Hogwarts that I wouldn’t be nose deep with Regulus researching potential horcrux hiding spots. 

“Bye.”

She slams the door. 

I leave my half empty cup on the counter and turn back in for the morning. My watch only read half past nine. I’d give myself another two hours. 

The next time I wake up it’s nearly noon. 

There’s a very number 12 Grimmauld Place looking tray on top of the flimsy table. I was starting to suspect the flat had come furnished with the cheap furniture.  _ Kreacher.  _ I didn’t even hear the house elf. And I had been sure all this time he hated me. 

Well, maybe he didn’t entirely hate me. 

Unless Regulus had put him up to this. 

But I really didn’t want to deal with that can of worms. 

I eat a late breakfast, washing off the plates and tray when I’m done and reading the note Penelope had stuck on their mini fridge, letting me know she’d be off at two. Or as the wizards would still call it, ice box. Mostly because wizarding fridges really did use ice. Charmed ice. Would make more sense to rune a box to stay cold or make a potion that would act in a similar way as muggle fridges. 

I still had two hours to kill. 

So I go about fixing up the couch. Leaving the blanket Penelope had lent me back in the cupboard in the tiny hall. It really is a small flat. Smaller than my parent’s place back in Blackpool. But at least it’s all theirs. I had nothing like this. 

Just rolling about like a rolling stone. 

Maybe I should just bite the bullet and go be a herbologist. I had a pretty good green thumb. And I liked going around watering plants, watching new leaves come in, and pruning them even when they retaliated when I cut off dying leaves. 

It’s with a large amount of boredom that I wander into Michelle’s rooms, just knowing she’ll be the one with the radio. After I’m done making another pot of tea. I was going to make them get more tea before I left. Nothing too fancy. Just a nice black tea. A darjeeling was very versatile. Then again, nothing went better with bread and baked beans than a cuppa english breakfast. 

Early grey had too much bergamot for my taste. 

Michelle has a little portable radio by the foot of her bed. 

I leave the rest of her things alone. She’s using her school trunk as a dresser. I wish that was me, getting. . .well maybe not a career but my life started except I also wish I was back at Grimmauld Place trying to find curtains without any holes in them, then giving up and mending them myself. 

I should never have kissed Regulus. 

No. 

I didn’t regret that. 

I had wanted to for maybe longer than I realized. And it had been better than I could have imagined, kissing, when you cared and felt as I did for the person. For Regulus. Or at least it had been great while it lasted. 

Now. . .I suppose I had to move on because there were still horcruxes to destroy. 

I’d let him know how I felt. And as much as it hurt, it wasn’t like I could do much more if he didn’t want to. I don’t know if it helped or made my chest ache more knowing that he did feel something for me but refused to-ugh. 

I turn on the radio. Tuning into some soap, where the witch who returned from the dead was actually just the evil twin sister. 

Some mindless chatter.

It's not hard to find some parchment, and I get some sketches done before long. Drawing their little flat, how the light played on the surfaces. Layering sketches from the same spot as the light moved little by little, noting the change in color as the sun moved through the sky. I wonder if there’s a museum with any monet paintings. 

Had monet been a wizard? 

He would’ve loved the ability to charm paintings. 

I don’t even notice when the tray and places disappear. 

Just when the door opens and Penelope, watermelon pink robe sleeves stained with various concoctions, comes in, proclaiming, “don’t let me sit. Just let me change or I don’t know if I’ll be able to drag myself out.”

“What happened to your robe,” I ask instead, hanging by her doorway, as she rifles around for a clean set of robes. A mint green robe dress, with a beige linen shirt underneath. It’s nice and light for the dying summer days. Looking more and more gloomy as September begins. 

I glance outside, worrying that it’ll rain. Not that Regulus would be going out. He was after all more concerned with somehow extracting a horcrux from its container. 

There had to be a way. Harry Potter was just a boy. It wasn’t his fault Riddle going around being evil had stuck him with a bit of Riddle’s soul. 

“Work,” she explains, changing quickly. “The charms sometimes get on the robes. It’s not a major problem. It’s just since there so much going on somethings bound to stain.”

“Big order went alright then?”

She nods, smoothing out any creases, before chucking her black mary janes for smooth brown boots. A pair I recognized from school. “Yes. thank merlin. I wasn’t staying to do overtime. Shall we? I’m letting you know now I don’t have any clue how the muggle bus works.”

I catch myself before I tell her I do. I’m not supposed to be familiar with London after all. “I’m sure there’s a map. It’s part of the adventure.”

She shakes her head, but there’s a lightness in her eyes, as she undoes the braid her hair had been held back in. “If we get lost. It’s your fault.”

“Getting lost is an adventure,” I grin. Doing a quick charm over my clothes. Last night's clothes. A tie dye shirt in various shades of purple. Blue jeans and my off brand barbour waxed jacket. When I was a rich and famous artist, I’d get an actual barbour jacket.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for not posting, esp after the end of the other chapter will try to stay more consistent from now on :)


	22. Part II: woolwitches

We make it to Woolwitch preserve in one piece. 

Penelope did in fact snooze while on the bus. And I missed having my sketchbook with me. Wish I had thought about taking a few things when I’d run out the door. 

It’s too beautiful for me to not want to draw everything. Like stepping foot inside the greenhouse at Hogwarts. The preserve transports us right in the middle of botanical gardens and it doesn’t take long to spot a few kneazles roaming about. Even the tell tale glitter of fairy wings through the flowering plants. Until we find a nice tree to sit under. 

Penelope thought to bring a thin blanket so we’re not absolutely grass stained by the time we get up. My fingers itch to draw, but my sketchbook is back at Grimmauld Place. 

I take a deep breath, lying down, limbs outstretched. 

Penelope sighs, digging into a bag of crisps. “I wish I could do this everyday.”

“Why don’t you find a job you don’t hate,” I ask. “Claire, she works for me mum, probably didn’t dream of working at a chip shop but I guess she likes it well enough to still be there a few years later.” 

She frowns deeply. “That’s just it. I-you know how I was taking all those NEWT level classes. Herbology. Charms. Transfiguration. Potions. Arithmancy. Runes.”

“Yes,” I nod, remembering feeling lucky to be taking History at the NEWT level. It wasn’t that much harder than it had been at the OWL level. Just new names and dates to go over. Potions had been dreadful though. 

“Well I only got an E for potions. So I can’t be a healer,” she explains in a small voice. “Now having taken all those classes is pointless. I might as well just have left hogwarts after fifth year.” 

I don’t know what to say to that. So I ask, “can’t you retake potions? Is that not an option.”

Penelope sniffles. Shaking her head. “I mean, I could but it’s Snape. He has to approve and he hated me. For being a know-it-all though I guess that wasn’t true. I just had questions. I don’t know how that makes me a know-it-all.”

I don’t mention my own O in potions, frowning. “Well can’t you be a nurse? That’s practically the same thing isn’t it? And you’d still be doing something you like. . .”

She hugs her knees to her chest, making herself small. “It’s not the same though. I thought-I was sure I’d get the qualifications and now. . .everyone’ll think I’m an idiot.” 

“I won’t,” I note. “You were always helping me with transfigurations. And more. And you at least have a clue of what you want. Would being a nurse be the worst thing in the world? Or I guess you could do something else entirely if it really bothers you.” 

Penelope pouts. “St. Mungo’s did offer me a place in their nursing program. I didn’t say no. Just deferred. Percy got into the department he wanted right out of school at the Ministry. Do you know how rare that is?”

“Who cares about your dick of an ex,” I point out. “Isn’t St. Mungos really hard to get a placement at?”

She nods. 

I roll my eyes. “Just accept it. Be miserable doing something you like instead of charming cleaning supplies for a living.” She was being ridiculous in my opinion but I don’t mention that. Penelope was hardly in the state to find my teasing funny. And she’d always been a little uptight. Not that I minded. Not when she was kind and never minded helping if you needed practice for a class. 

“What about you Jane, going to get a proper job soon. Or think you’ll be too homesick to leave Blackpool anytime soon?” 

I make a face, pouting. ‘I was only really homesick like the first week back in first year. I dunno why no one ever lets me forget it. Not my fault I’m sensitive.”

She laughs. “It’s because you’re an only child. I have an older brother and sister.”

“So you’re still babied,” I point out. “No. I just-I want to make this art thing work but it’s not like I’m getting steady work. Professor Sprout thought I should go down a herbology track or a potions apprenticeship.”

“You were the one who brewed amortentia the best. Mine smelled too much like socks. Remember. Stank up the whole room.” 

I shrug. “I think I’ll give the art thing a year. Before I decide on something. I mean, I’m barely turning eighteen in a few months.”

“Oh,” Penelope grins, “you should come visit again. We can do something. Go ice skating.”

“I won’t make any promises,” I tell her, because I really couldn’t. Not knowing where I’d be in a few days let alone weeks. 

“Maybe,” she says thinking out loud, “we could go watch the triwizard tournament at Hogwarts. I know they’re letting visitors in for all the trials. Got to reserve you’re spot early though. Everyones raging about what the champions might be facing.”

“Who’s our champion?”

She shrugs, “don’t know yet. They haven’t gotten around to choosing.”

I nod along, “interesting. I’ll have to follow along in the prophet then.”

“Yes Jane! Read the news once in a while. Did you hear about the break in at Gringotts!”

  
  
  


I take care not to step on the creaky step on my way up the stairs to my room. It’s half past two in the morning and I’m a little out of it from the bottles of wine Michelle had opened up. I sort of feel like a naughty teenager sneaking up to my room even though I have no reason to. 

Don't owe anyone explanations. 

Regulus' door is closed. The lights are still on, creeping out from under the closed door and I hover outside, wondering if I should knock: let him know I've come back. I bite my lip, thinking about what I should do. 

Or if I should pretend everything's the same. 

It's one of the few time's in my life I've hesitated, an uncertainty like doxies eating at old curtains in my mind. I don't particularly want to deal with him yet, my throat choking up with emotion.

I turn into my room, taking care to close the door silently. 

Then I finally allow myself to cry. 

Alone and curled up in bed. 

Listening to Oasis’ latest album in Sirius’ CD player. 

The sun still isn't up when I get up. The sky barely lightening. 

I chalk it up to having spent most of yesterday laying around. It's nice to take a shower and get some clean clothes on though. Nothing special but one of the many 70s-sequel dresses my mom said made me look like a farm girl. 

Kreacher is already up downstairs, grumbling about stains and mold as he empties out about trunkful of clothes and curtains that have been stored for merlin knows how long. The house elf carefully inspects a set of old lavender robes before tossing them into one of two piles. One beyond saving, and one where there's still hope. 

I look over the pile that was definitely trash and hopefully wouldn't just end up getting stores once again by the house elf who seemed to think that nothing could be trash if it was once owned by the Black family. I had to get a start on my christmas presents. 

And I had an inkling of an idea. So carefully I ask, “are you going to use those or can I use them for a project. Well christmas presents. There's a few holes but I think I can just reuse the fabric. It's good fabric after all.” Of course I can't keep it short and simple. 

Kreacher turns to me with a frown that I've come to expect. He just had one of those faces. “My Mistress had very good taste,” he says civilly. 

And since it wasn’t a no, I immediately get my grubby little hands on the moth-eaten clothes pile. This years theme was going to be hogwarts house pillow. It wasn’t just me that was having a rough go at post school life after all. Hufflepuff for me and Michelle. Maybe two for my parents to remind them I was a witch and had no plans to go be a doctor. Ravenclaw for Penelope. Oh, can’t forget about Tonks. Hufflepuff for her. And Slytherin for Regulus. And. . .should I send one to Leandra? 

I hadn’t heard from her. 

Not a peep since the news of the break in. 

She had to know it had been me. 

Ugh. 

The miscellaneous fabrics that I can’t use, I start cutting up into strips with a pair of scissors in the recently tidied up cabinets. I shred them into strips to make the pillows filling. Maybe I could brew up a cheering potion, a pepper me up potion more like, a weak solution that I could boil the stuffing in. 

I rummage through the poorly stocked potions cabinet. It’s a large pantry with cauldrons in all sizes, in pewter and gold. Empty vials waiting to be filled with potions. 

For the potions ingredients, I summon my bag, catching it as it comes flying through the air. “Kreacher, are there any beets or turmeric? Or avocado pits! That would work so well,” I say turning it over in my mind, trying to remember if they would react with any of the ingredients in pepperup-could I maybe instead edit the pepperup potion to be more of a cheering up? Lavender instead of pepper. . . “no,” I mutter to myself, too calming. Perhaps something crisp like lemongrass? Or a little tangy like citrus. Erring on the side of caution I should use orange peel, which I did have stored up. 

Kreacher shakes his head, but scrounges up a small jar of turmeric and some beets which surprises me since I don’t remember eating beets in the past month. Or had it been two already? He mutters pityingly under his breath, “muggleborns.” Which was a long step up from _filth and mudblood._ “Don’t know any better,” he says sadly, but hands over the loot all the same. 

I half the potion and add in citrus to the solvent, leaving out all the crushed pepper. I crush the mandrake root so that it can distill into the solvent, stirring clockwise the required eighteen times before adding in the bicorn horn, crushed to sugar-like granules. I’d made the mistake of crushing the bicorn into powder before. 

Then I let it simmer for a good hour, cutting out the squares I’ll have to sew up. Or could I just, I could just use a charm couldn’t I? 

I prepare the tie dye: mixing turmeric and water into a paste for one and boiling the beets until the water’s bloody red. Then I toss in the scraps of fabric, submerging them into the larger sized caldrons. Kreacher hands me some miscellaneous clothes, mostly socks, and with a shrug, I throw them in too, figuring Kreacher knows what he's doing.

I’d do the embroidery by hand, but charm them up instead of sewing. 

While I’m letting the rags soak, letting the potion that might work for cheering up cool down and finding way more socks than I had previously thought had gone in alone with the rags, Kreacher nabs me and starts making me try on the robes so he can properly inspect them for holes. I twirl as if in slow motion in a set of claret robes too long for me, as Kreacher stares intently before deciding they were worth mending. I almost fall over while taking them off, before he waves me on to the next set, olive green dress robes that were for a much thinner and taller woman. My ego felt a little bruised when I sucked in my belly but realized that the small sleeves wouldn’t even go all the way up my arms. 

I’d never felt fat in my life. 

The tweed robe was rather sherlock homes-esque which was always great in my opinion. 

The struggle becomes pointless when we discover a smattering of yellow stains starting at my right calf. They don’t come out.

Kreacher tosses the clothes. 

“Why do house elves like being house elves,” I wonder, starting to get an appetite. I tosse the newly tie dyed stuffing into the potion, letting it soak up, but let the men's socks which can only belong to Regulus continue to dry. A waft of the cheer-up potion had me silly with smiles. 

Kreacher ignores me. 

“I mean,” I comment, “cleaning. . .having. . .a witch or wizard, does that like I dunno fulfill you in life? I know my mum hates cleaning. Mostly dad does the kitchen stuff. It’s dishes she really hates.” 

He frowns more than usual, really highlighting the many wrinkles across his forehead. “Fulfill?”

“You know,” I shrug, shaking the trouser leg that fell past my foot onto the floor. This pair didn’t have holes though. “Makes you happy. I don’t think Michelle wants to work at a pub for the rest of her life but she seems pretty good for now. I dunno, maybe she would like to work at a pub. But Penelope’s pretty sad. And I still ‘ve no clue. I mean art, but I don’t think I can live on 160 galleons.”

The house elf shakes his head sagely. “Life isn’t about being happy Miss. It’s about duty and family.” 

“I don’t think so,” I feel obligated to say. “But what about you. Like are you personally happy?”

Kreacher nods enthusiastically, nearly swooning, as he halts his task of dumping loads of re-coloring potion onto the old garments, “ever since my Master Regulus was returned to me!”

I think about the years he spent here in Grimmauld Place as it fell into ruin. “Why didn’t you just leave,” I ask gently, “if everyone was dead.”

Kreacher looks horrified. “Leave where? This is my home. The home of my ancestors. . .no no no. Kreacher is a good house elf.”

“I dunno,” I shrug, feeling bad but unable to stop pestering the poor house elf. “Where do house elves come from.”

“Cold wretched places infested with,” Kreacher glances around, before whispering, “Nargles and Snorkacks.”

“What are nargles,” I ask quietly. 

He proceeds to explain all about the mountains he’s never personally been to but has heard about from stories passed down through other house elves, up north where nargles chase house elves from their homes no matter if it’s a burrow of a tree trunk and snorkacks of all kinds, horned and winged, eat them. “But a good house elf is safe inside a wizard home,” Kreacher finishes. Before rambling about how house elves were nothing like the selfish domovoi.

“Oh,” I smile, hanging up the rags to dry. I’d get to embroidering tomorrow. After I wrote the Ministry asking for two passes to go watch the triwizard tournament. That would take care of one problem. The diadem. Then there was Harry Potter and the mysterious horcrux number seven. I was starting to think Riddle had to have used something else, another heirloom or relic, one not belonging to Gryffindor. Maybe another one from Slytherin. Or perhaps he’d kept something from the Riddles after all and I should’ve checked the house while we were in Little Hangleton. 

We could go back? 

We’re both too wrapped up in our various tasks to notice when Regulus wakes up, popping the kettle on the stove, still half asleep even in a blue long sleeve and black trousers.

I avert my gaze, feeling my cheeks burn when I spot him making tea from one of the many tins. It was a good thing tea kept so well. Maybe I could just send one of the many tea tins from here to Michelle and Penelope. 

It’s obvious when he realizes I’m sitting there with Kreacher, surprise coloring his tone, all of a sudden more alert. “Jane,” he cries out, spilling water as he poured it into a mug. “You’re-I mean, good morning Jane.”

I decide to put my best foot forward, not wanting to throw away our friendship over what had happened the day before yesterday, regardless of how I felt. “I got in late,” I explain, keeping my gaze on the robes I was looking over, trying to catch any patches of mold. “Didn’t want to wake anyone up on my account.”

“Mm,” he hums, grabbing another mug out of the cabinet. 

“Made any progress,” I ask instead, steering us onto neutral territory. 

“Not really,” he sighs, pouring just a hint of milk into my cup of english breakfast. Before adding as much milk as possible into his cup. “There’s not a lot of literature to sort through. Even all the books on the killing curse basically tell me what I already know. It kills. There’s nothing you can do.”

“Well,” I reply, “I think I have the start of a hint of how to get us into Hogwarts grounds without raising suspicion.”

“Do you,” he asks, taking a seat next to Kreacher. 

“I might. I’ll have to do some checking but if al, goes well it should only take a month or so.” Depending on when the triwizard tournament tasks were going to happen. 

“Alright then.”

“Alright.”

Kreacher breaks the terse silence, “would anyone care for some breakfast? Toast and marmalade?”

  
  



	23. Part II: life goes on

_ Miss Jane Saldana of the chip shop in Carleton Blackpool England,  _

_ We sincerely regret to inform you that spectators will only be permitted during the third and final task of this year's triwizard tournament being hosted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Permits will be issued to relatives and close friends of champions first and then on a lottery basis for the final task. I have taken the liberty of entering you for that lottery.  _

_ Sincerely,  _

_ Undersecretary for the Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, Ludovic Bagman. _

_ Miss Anushka Dewan. _

I sigh, tossing the letter aside and getting back to work on my latest commission. A present from Tonks to her dad. A simple muggle portrait. No big charm or fancy movements. He had the same mousy brown hair she sometimes wore when she wasn't trying on an outrageous colour, but his face was rounder with a broader nose than I had seen her with. It was hard to compare when she could so easily change her features.

Now I needed another way to get into Hogwarts. The problem was of course, save for the board of Hogwarts, there was no reason to go. 

I had to be missing an angle. Or some key idea. 

I draw Ted Tonks' eyes, erasing the tear duct when I find it makes him look too sad. It was minute details like the curve of expression lines or even in the crease of the mouth, that added up to a person's expression. 

It's a good portrait for me only having the photo Tonks had sent me to base it off. When I got around to adding the paint, I reckoned it would look realistic enough to be mistaken for a picture. 

Since she was my friend and it was a muggle drawing, I was only charging her two galleons and four sickles. 

I put the canvas side, repurposed wood from a side table that had been too infested with mold to save, instead flipping through the stack of thrown away papers Kreacher had scavenged up. 

Regulus hadn't looked through them. He'd hardly left the library in three days, hell bent on finding a solution to the question of Harry Potter. Or avoiding me. I wasn't sure. 

We lived together and I'd seen him less than when I was still at Hogwarts.

The front page of the prophet is still the dark mark over the quidditch world cup even two months on. It had been the biggest news in ages, but as I skimmed through the article, I see the ministry’s investigation hasn't turned up anything new.  And they probably wouldn't if they didn't bother investigating known death eaters who'd managed to escape azkaban by saying they'd been under the imperius curse. Or had sold out other death eaters. It was a lousy investigation.  Like whenever a banker was found to be embezzling money or a company that earned millions of pounds somehow didn't pay taxes. Oh merlin's beard I was turning into my dad. 

I toss the prophet on the coffee table and grab last week's edition of witches weekly. The cover’s much more uplifting. And article detailing the history of the triwizard tournament being the main feature with the promise of a  _ which wizarding school are you _ inside. I actually read that article and figure out very quickly why it was banned. In 1724 all three champions died in the first task. 

Regulus finally comes out from the library, looking very much like he'd camped out in the library. His white shirt was more wrinkled than shirt, collar hopelessly misshapen even with the navy sweater doing a lot of work hiding the worst of it. He has a book in hand, but collapses into an armchair. 

Kreacher’s interior decorating habits still reign supreme, Regulus’ chair at an awkward angle out from the table, facing away from me.

He doesn't scoot the chair any closer. 

I sigh. Figuring sooner or later the lingering awkwardness will go away. 

I take the quiz and get Hogwarts which isn't very fun at all; not when I went to Hogwarts. 

I toss Witches Weekly aside and shuffle the rest of the prophets aside. I didn't particularly care about standardizing cauldron thickness or a missing ministry employee. Or the ongoing investigation into the death eater riot. 

There were only so many times I could stomach the images of the muggle family being cruelly levitated in the air. 

I get to a thin glossy magazine with a psychedelic cover in lime green and hot pink with orange letters proclaiming,  _ How to know When it's Nargles!  _ The image swirls in and out of focus, hurting my eyes to keep seeing it. 

Interested I open the magazine up. In tomato red font, it reads  _ The Quibbler _ . Main Contributor. X. Lovegood. 

Remembering Kreacher's mention of nargles, I flip to the article, by passing a section on how to repurpose turnips. 101 uses for turnips. Planting a fairy garden: all about bluebells and wind chimes. 

I draw up my knees to my chest and begin to read, curling up on the settee. Wishing Regulus would at least try and pretend like everything was normal. And glancing over at him between paragraphs. 

The entire article read like a fantastical made up story. There were no sources, only hearsay. No photos, only some very badly drawn stick pictures. Signed L. Lovegood. Nothing concrete on nargles. 

I wonder if it’s just because they don’t want to be found by wizards. There’s still lots according to Leandra that wizards don’t know about goblins because of the distrust between the species. 

Or if the Lovegoods just made the whole thing up. 

I reread the article, looking for descriptions of nargles, before sketching some out in my sketchbook, even looking over the stick drawings. For lack of anything else to do. 

How to get into Hogwarts? 

I draw the nargles in various sizes, trying to imagine the creature that would annoy house elves into fleeing their homes in some ancestral past. It had to be fierce, yet small enough according to the Lovegoods to infest mistletoe. I wasn’t sure the Lovegoods counted as sources. 

It was weird to think this strange editor would be able to go cover the triwizard tournament for their magazine while I couldn’t. Except-

The idea hits me like lightning striking. 

I could write in an article on nargles and hopefully get a press pass from the Quibbler to go to the triwizard competition. Get Regulus in as my. . .photographer. I stop drawing and start writing: jotting down everything Kreacher had told me about nargles and snorkacks and the history of house elves. I had no clue if any of it could be verified, but I had a feeling the Quibbler wasn’t the most reputable of sources and would take my word for it. 

Neither was every article in witches weekly so it’s not like that was the worst thing in the world. 

And if it got me into Hogwarts. . .

I’m half done editing my third page when I glance over at Regulus like I’ve been doing for the last hour. It’s the first time I notice that his socks are an interesting shade of orange. Not, not an interesting shade, they’re tie dyed. 

“What-who,” I voice aloud, before realizing who was the only fool in this house who’d recently tie dyed, “Oh! oh.” My face heats up before I laugh. “Sorry about your socks,” I try to sound sorry. 

“What,” Regulus asks looking up. 

“Your socks,” I motion. “I think Kreacher and I went a little crazy the other morning.”

“Oh,” he says with a shrug, looking back down at his book. 

I hated this. 

“It’s fine,” he says. “I’m hardly going to complain about socks.”

I bite my lip. Ripping out the pages from my sketchbook, drawings of nargles included, and fold them up to be sent by owl post. Hopefully X. Lovegood liked what I was offering. 

“Any progress on HP or the 7th,” I ask him, hoping to start even the most threadbare of conversations. 

He shakes his head, not bothering to look up. 

I sigh, getting up, getting ready to run down to the owl post so I wouldn’t have to be cooped up in here. “Alright then, I'm going to the post. Do you want anything? Crisps, socks that don’t look at home at a Dead concert. You know, my dad took me to a dead concert when I was five. Granted I don’t remember but I have a picture.”

“I’m good,” he says, sidestepping my wonderful conversation starters. "Thank you for offering."

I roll my eyes, and make a mental note to pick up The Cranberries newest album while I’m out. 

  
  


_ Dear Miss Jane Saldana of the unplottable house in London,  _

_ Me and my dearest Luna loved your article. It was enlightening! And the drawings! Could we publish it all for 10 galleons? We would be very interested in any other article you have up your sleeve. _

_ -Lovegood.  _

The letter comes complete with a pair of radish earrings to keep away any of the aforementioned nargles. I blast _ Everyone else is doing it so why can’t we _ , while I write a quick response about how yes I would love to get paid. Was ten galleons the right price? I didn’t know, but I needed this relationship to work. 

I answer that I think I could tell who’d win the triwizard tournament once I got to see the champions in person based on their auras. It was divination speak, but it was the sort of thing that fit into the Quibbler. Actual aura-ists were incredibly rare. 

Hopefully that netted me a press pass. 

I rewind the CD back to dreams. The best Cranberries song by far. Or at least my favorite. Then go back to destroying my pajama shirt as I finish painting Ted Tonks, giving the man the right combination of liveliness and joy. I wouldn’t want a dour painting of my parents in the style that Regulus' family seemed to prefer, pinched expression forever etched into long dead blacks as they scoffed while I walked through the halls. 

The background is an orange-y brown. Boring, but quick compared to the layers of paint and mixing it takes to hit the right shade of almond brown hair for Mr. Tonks. 

I rewind the CD back to dreams and wonder if I could just buy an entire cd with just that song. 

I’m a mess with shading. It takes me a good few hours to get the right shadows on a face so that it’s not a flat image. Without shading, it just can’t look realistic. Not that Tonks had specified a style. I’d have to sleep with the window open, even if it rained, the smell of paint thick in the air, a bit like gasoline. 

I rewind the CD back to dreams. 

“You're going to scratch that disc,” Regulus notes whilst leaning against the doorframe. “If you keep skipping back.”

Startled, I accidentally add peach colour to the whites of Ted Tonks eyes. “Fuck,” I mutter quietly, before reaching for a rag. Minimizing the damage. “How long have you been standing there,” I ask, as I sense him step into the room, coming to a halt near the wall where I had propped up the canvas. 

“Not long,” he says fidgeting with the buttons of his cuff. “I just-the prophet arrived. They know who the champions are.” Regulus glances around my room. I've sorted through most of random trucks, figuring out which had random things and which had actual belongings to Sirius. 

My beds still unmade. Covers periwinkle instead of Gryffindor red. 

“Oh,” I ask eagerly, putting the rag and brush down. “Really? That was quick. I thought they were just choosing today.” 

“Special edition of the prophet,” he explains, still awkwardly standing next to me, his gaze fixed on the portrait. “Did you get another commission?”

“Yeah,” I nod. “Tonks again. This time personal though. It's her dad's birthday.” 

I wait for him to give me the paper or tell me who the champions are. But he just tilts his head thoughtfully as he looks over my work. 

“So,” I pry, “who’re the champions?” 

“Mm, Oh yes,” Regulus says, jolting out of his thoughts, “the champions.” He hands me the special prophet edition, the article proudly written by Rita Skeeter. Her names in a different font than the rest of the article. 

A moving photo of four champions-wait four! 

The article boldly reads,  _ Harry Potter: Champion of Hogwarts.  _ Followed by,  _ Quidditch Cup loser Victor Krum gets another shot at glory for Drumstang.  _ Only the heading under the photo reads Cedric Diggory and Fleur Delacour. 

They'd obviously drawn the short end of the stick. 

“Looks like the Potter boy is as much trouble as his late father,” Regulus muses coldly. 

I shake my head, “or this could just be his bad luck following him around as usual. I mean everyone thought he was a goner when your brother broke into the castle. And right after being blamed for the chamber of secrets attacks.” Neither of those had been his fault as it turned out. 

“Of course my brother broke into hogwarts,” Regulus scowls, rolling his eyes.

I'm just glad he's talking to me to care too much about his relationship with his on the run brother. Sirius was a problem for another day. Once we'd solved the horcrux issue. 

“Must be awful to be Cedric Diggory,” I utter, recalling the handsome boy on my house's quidditch team. It didn't surprise me that a hufflepuff was the Hogwarts champion at all. “To be sidelined so badly by this Skeeter woman. No one ever takes hufflepuffs seriously.”

Regulus snorts. 

I smack his arm playfully. “Shut up you! We have the kitchens. There. I said it. Hufflepuff’s the best house.”

“Well you’re wrong,” he says, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. 

“I’m not though,” I state, picking up my brush again. The paint had dried enough I could paint over the smudge of peach-y paint in Ted’s eye. “Well didn’t they say they would make it safer this year?”

“We are talking about the Ministry,” Regulus says with a frown. “They did let a death eater riot happen right under their nose at the cup.”

“Well,” I reply, “it’s not like anyone could have been expecting that so long after you-know-who’s downfall. Did they ever find out who started it? Or cast the dark mark?”

He shakes his head. “It has to have been a death eater that managed to escape going to Azkaban. Either by selling out other death eaters or putting money in the right pockets. Morsmordre isn’t the type of spell you can cast half heartedly. Only Riddle’s inner circle knew the spell to cast the dark mark.”

“Which you were a part of,” I note, realizing that couldn’t have been every death eater then, for there have been enough witches and wizards left to riot. Some of them must have gone on unmarked and free after the war. “Not every death eater was marked then. . .”

“No,” he responds quietly. 

I set my brush down. Done painting for the day as our conversation takes a turn to an incredibly depressing subject. A mood killer. 

“It was seen as an honor,” he elaborates, his hand on the back of the chair I’d dragged up from one of the third floor rooms, on the back of my chair. “Receiving the dark mark. You see, only Riddle himself could give it.”

“Did it hurt,” I ask gently, looking up at him. “You don’t have to answer,” I add. I had to stop making him relive all the awful things he didn’t like talking about. My curiosity was such that I had yet to learn how to stop myself. 

Or maybe it wasn’t that at all. 

I didn’t pester Penelope or Tonks nearly as much. 

I just knew Regulus wouldn’t find me annoying. 

His gaze falls to the floor, before he voices, “I thought it was the worst moment of my life until the cave. The pain. . .I didn’t think I would get through it without passing out. Bella gave me a bottle of firewhiskey after.”

I snort, finding the situation incredibly absurd. He’d have been sixteen then. Younger than me, and joining a terrorist group, yet his older cousin bought him a bottle of alcohol the way many teenagers get their older friends to buy liquor for parties. 

“You’re incredibly talented Jane. I don’t think I’ve told you that before. You have a good eye for art,” he muses, changing the subject back to something that won’t keep me up at night, turning the question of how many older witches and wizards I’d passed by on the streets had been aspiring death eaters, or harboured sympathies for Riddle. 

“You did mention how you think I could,” I do my best breathy voice like Professor Trelawney, “open my third eye,” I wiggle my eyebrows, trying not to blush at his compliment. 

“Maybe an artistic eye and a seerer eye are two sides of the same coin.”

“Maybe,” I nod along, cleaning my hands in the basin full of water. Paint had obscured most of my tan skin beneath different shades of warm peach tones that matched the skin colour Tonks sported, and I assumed matched her dad’s. 

The paint beneath my nails is a lost cause. 

Especially since I’ll have to add the final layer tomorrow morning. 

“Well,” I say, “I’m going to turn in for the night.” Essentially kicking him out. 

Always quick on the uptake, Regulus nods, stepping back as I get up. “Of course. Good night Jane.” But he doesn’t turn to leave. 

“Good night.”

He opens his mouth as if to say something more, before closing his lips and leaving. 

I close the door softly behind him.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> regulus just made the tonks connection. 
> 
> would people be interested if i made a character guide for all my ocs in this fic? like jane, leandra, michelle? i was thinking of doing one and sticking it in the notes for the next chapter?


	24. Part II: a stroll down the thames

“He’s never going to love you,” the mirror’s lofty voice says in a shrill voice. I really have to wonder about Sirius’ taste if this was his mirror. 

I’ve just gotten out of the shower, and I’m struggling too much with all the knots in my hair to put up with the mirror, that like most things lying around in Grimmauld Place, have a grudge against muggle borns and muggles alike. I was not being told shit by an inanimate mirror. 

I was not. 

“Keep saying that mate,” I reply, working my brush through my thick hair and wondering if I should just cut it all off. Then it would be easy to maintain my wavy hair. “And you’ll end up stuffed into the back of some closet until you crack and get thrown out.”

“Somebody’s in a mood,” the mirror sing-songs, unbothered. 

I glare, shutting it right up. Then leave the bathroom entirely, opting to use the window to finish detangling my hair. It wasn’t a perfect solution. But it did save my ego from a major bruising. 

It’s as I’m finally finishing detangling my hair that I spy two owls headed straight for my window. 

I throw open the window, feeling a lot like Rapunzel. All this horcrux hunting really just meant that I was stuck inside all the time. 

The first is another letter from Tonks. A short and sweet thank you letter for the portrait of her dad. The second is the one I’ve been waiting for. A letter back from X. Lovegood complete with two press passes to the first triwizard tournament task. They’re shiny black square pins with  _ The Quibbler _ written in hot pink letters.

Yes! 

We had a way into Hogwarts. Now we could destroy the diadem. 

All we needed now was to figure out what to do about the horcrux that was Harry Potter. 

I head downstairs, ready to go tell Regulus. I had to pump him for information on his part of our work. 

He’s sitting at the kitchen counter, giant mug of coffee in hand. It was morning after all. 

I shove the thought of how attractive he looks in simple dark jeans and a very french breton baby blue and white stripe sweater, the collar of his shirt peeking out from under his sweater, to the far back of my mind, instead focusing on the matter at hand. “The Quibbler got us press passes!”

“That nutters paper,” Regulus says with a sneer. 

I roll my eyes. “My dad thought you were a nutter,” I retort back. “And they had a great article on nargles. Even sent me a pair of radish earrings.”

Regulus shakes his head. “Nargles aren't real.”

“Wizards don't know everything,” I snip back. “And you shouldn't call people nutters just because of their creative views. It's not like they're calling for us to drink the draught of living death.”

He scoffs. “The Quibblers rubbish. And your parents let you be friends with me even though they thought I was mad?” 

I shrug, “well it's not like they were running after me. They have loads of work to do. I think they trusted that I wouldn't do anything stupid. And the quibbler’s a fun read. Just take it with a grain of salt. And didn't your parents let you join a terrorist cult?” I pour myself a cup of the tea he'd made, nabbing some toast and marmalade. 

“Fair enough,” he chuckles, running a hand through his hair. 

“Any progress on the HP front?” 

Regulus takes a long sip of his cup. “No breakthroughs, if that's what you mean. I think I've figured out the vessel for storing the piece of soul once we've extracted it, an altered version of the runed vase used in the kitsune curse, but as for removing the soul. . .I thought the ancient egyptians might have something but so far, nothing. They have curses for everything from removing organs while keeping the consciousness intact to using stone bugs to eat your insides even after thousands of years, but they didn't mess about with the soul.” 

Frowning, I take a bite of my toast. “Well, we can always make Professor Dumbledore deal with it after we get an unbreakable vow out of him. Or some immunity for you, like he did for Professor Snape!”

“No. No,” he shakes his head, brows furrowed. “He might think it's a trick. Or sell us out as soon as he has the information he needs. Or stun us before we even have a chance to speak.”

He was being incredibly paranoid about the only wizard in the world who would more than likely help us. Professor Dumbledore was respected the world over for a reason, not just for being on the backs of chocolate frogs. “Alright,” I say, letting him have this one. I'd just have to take a former horcrux with me when we entered Hogwarts in case we were caught. The ring would be the easiest to transport, but we still haven't checked if it was safe to touch. The cup was awkward which left the locket. 

I'd seen it in his room, laying on his nightstand.

We lapse into silence as we eat and drink tea. I'm itching for it to be November 23rd already, sick of hiding out in this house when Regulus was hell bent on making things much more difficult between us than they had to be. 

In a week I'd be 18, I think sadly, realizing it was my first birthday in years without Leandra. The betrayal still stung like a fresh papercut. I'd probably have to take up Michelle and Penelope on their birthday offer. It would be sad if I spent my birthday cleaning an antique armoire. 

I hadn't written her since I'd called.

She had to have put the break in at gringotts and my questions together. 

At least she hadn't told the ministry everything or else I'd already be in Azkaban.

I rest my cheek against my hand, sighing. She'd understand once I explained things to her. I hoped. I mean, she had to. Making sure Voldemort never returned was more important than Gringotts. Once I explained things she'd apologize and we could be thick as thieves again. I was sure.

Our friendship could survive this. 

“Jane.” Regulus says, turning to me. 

“Yes?”

“I was thinking. . .”

“Mhm.”  _ Continue on. _

He shifts in his seat, suddenly finding the chinoise pattern on his mug deeply interesting, “We’ve been cooped up in this house for a while, and I’ve hit a wall with the research I am doing.” He pauses dramatically, taking a long sip of his tea. “I was thinking that you might like to go to London for the day.”

Smiling, I reply, “I would love to.”

We walk down the river Thames starting from around Piccadilly Circus at a leisurely pace. London in the fall was overcast, mist rolling off the bank of the dark waters below, nothing at all like the sea by home that gleamed blue, or the dark green waters of Black lake. It was only two in the afternoon, but the sun showed no signs of breaking through the grey skies above. 

I didn’t mind, ‘s long as it didn’t rain. A silly hope. Rain was just a matter of when in England like in Scotland. 

“Can you believe I’ve been in London for two months,” I say, spinning around happily, as “and I’m only now seeing Big Ben!” The spinning effect was ruined by the fact I was wearing jeans. But my knitted yellow sweater made up for the fact. I’d embroidered little flowers and vines in the formation of cheering runes I’d copied off Leandra’s homework. It was soft and big, falling a bit over my hands unless I folded it over into cuffs. 

“Well we don’t really go out much,” Regulus says, matching the weather in mopeiness. 

“I know,” I shrug, continuing on down the walkway, leaving the famous clock behind, “but it’s not forever. Potions masters don’t travel much do they? But maybe if I do herbology I could. Travel the world uncovering exotic plants. Sort of a magizoologist but for plants right.” I’m hyper aware of the space between us, both of us taking up the three person walkway, even as I wish I could just heedlessly take his hand in mine like before.

“There is work in the acquisition of rare plant species,” he muses, “or you could do conservation in the magical forest preserves out in asia and on the continent.” 

“And I could paint,” I note dreamily, imagining the landscapes I’d only seen through the telly. The glaciers of Norway and the thick jungles full of elephants and tigers in India. “I know Gauguin was a complete tosser. I read a bunch of books on him when I was obsessed with his work. I mean his use of color,” I ramble. “That could be me!”

“It always comes back to painting with you doesn’t it,” he laughs easily. 

I feel heat rise to my cheeks. “I just really like painting. At first it started with me looking through art books and thinking ‘hmm I could do that’ except I couldn’t. Like not even those abstract line drawings or well, I guess I could splatter paint but even, you can see the difference between a confident hand in the brush strokes and someone who’s just learning.” I never can seem to shut up. 

But Regulus doesn’t mind, listening to my stream of consciousness chatter. 

“Well you've certainly painted enough that I would be worried if you hadn't improved,” he teases. 

I blush. I can't seem to stop blushing around him now. Too aware of  _ him.  _ “Yeah, Tonks did say she was expecting a quick sketch for the two galleons I charged her not a bloody portrait.”

“You were bored.”

“I was bored.” A line of people getting ice cream catches my eye. It must be good if there's a line, or maybe it was a location thing. A tourist trap. “Want ice cream?”

“Why not,” Regulus shrugs. “I used to fancy myself good enough to go pro in quidditch. I don't know if I was though. Didn't really pursue it after school.” 

“I've never seen you fly,” I comment, trying to peek at the flavors of ice cream. Pistachio was a risky choice. If it was good, it was an amazing flavor, but more often than not it was awful. 

“I haven't in years,” he says with a note of longing in his voice. “Been wanting to get my hands on one of the new firebolts. Not really inconspicuous thought now is it? How many muggle associate brooms with witches,” a mischievous grin on his lips. 

It's infectious, my smile growing to match his. “I always feel like I'll fall off a broom.” I admit. Having been terrible at it back in first year. “I think I'm just not good with heights.”

“I wouldn’t let you fall.”

Heat floods my cheeks when I realize what he says. 

And I can see the moment his mind catches up with his mouth, pink dusting his features. Regulus looks away, looking out towards the street. 

We lapse into silence. 

Both awkwardly navigating the changed relationship between us. There was no way to forget, as we both read too much into every action the other does. 

I get a scoop of berries and cream. The berry jam tart in contrast to the sweetness of the cream ice cream. 

We take a seat at the bridge in front of St. Paul's cathedral, the top of the church casting its shadow over us. The globe theater on the other side of the river. I could even make out the tower of london and london bridge. 

People jog by in adidas neon jackets. 

“What happened to the woman you followed to London?” Which isn't the best question to ask when I'm trying to make things less awkward between us. But here I am. Being a complete knob. 

Regulus plays with his own caramel and chocolate chip ice cream, sighing. 

I don't think he's going to answer. That glazed look coming over his silver eyes as he stares out over the river. 

“It's hard to have a relationship when you can't be honest and open with someone,” he finally says. “I could have lied but I didn't want to. Not with her. But I also couldn't be honest.”

I frown, trying to imagine a younger Regulus all torn up over some woman in London. He seemed so sure of himself now. 

“Eventually,” he says with a bittersweet shrug, “she got tired of hearing ‘sorry. Can't tell you. For reasons.’ Whether it was about the magic or more unsavory parts of my past.” 

“I'm sorry,” I say in a small voice. 

“It's been years Jane,” Regulus says with a small smile on his lips. “It doesn't matter now.”

I look around, making sure that no one's watching, before proceeding to vanish my empty cup. “Let's talk about something less depressing,” I say, “what else did you think about doing after Hogwarts? Aside from the whole ``you know what thing.”

Regulus snorts. “That's certainly one way to put it.”

“I have a way with words,” I grin. 

“I don't know. When my brother was still the heir, I thought I might go to eastern europe and study the dark arts. I've always found the subject fascinating and it doesn't have the same reputation as it does here. It's just seen as another branch of magic,” he tells me. “The dark arts are even taught at Drunstang. And there's so much more to it than just death and torture.”

I laugh, loving the way his entire face lights up as he talks about something he's passionate about. None of the hesitance and long suffering enduring he had when he was researching what little information there was about horcruxes. “Sounds like a simple choice,” I say thinking about how many things I wanted to do but I didn't want to just choose one. 

“Not really,” he counters. “You need all Os at the newt level in pretty much everything. Potions. Charms. Defense. Transfiguration. Runes. Arithmancy.”

“Okay. I'm seeing where this could be a tinsy bit tricky. I know Penelope’s dreams got smashed because she didn't get an E in potions. Now she can't be a healer but you're clever enough,” I point out. He'd controlled fiendfyre for merlin's sake. Hardly an average wizard. 

“I'm terrible at potions. Or was. I think I've gotten a bit better in the past years,” Regulus counters. “I put in the work is what I'm saying.” 

“But you obviously didn't do that.”

“Obviously.” He vanishes his own cup. 

I lay out on the steps, content to watch the boats and people go by. Except it was going to start raining soon. The sky darkening into a midnight hue, not nearly as full of stars as the skies over Hogwarts, far from any light pollution. 

“But when Sirius ran away and I couldn't just up and go anymore,” he volunteers, “I thought maybe I'd just study magic itself. Spell creation. That sort of thing.”

“It's going to rain in a few,” I warn him, getting up, dusting my jeans off. 

Regulus looks up at me with a delighted look on his features. Which is concerning given the fact that he hates the rain. “Just in time for our reservation.”

“We have a reservation?” I was not the reservation type. I was the wander about and follow my nose to good food type. 

“For your birthday,” he says in a rush, red creeping up his neck. “We-we have a. . .later we’ll be busy with planning for Hogwarts.”

I'm flattered he remembered what month my birthday is at all. But not flattered enough not to point out. “And you don't know what day my birthday is.” 

“And I don't know when your birthday is,” he admits, getting up. 

“On the 19th.” 

“I'll keep that in mind for next year,” he says.

Warmth fills my chest at the idea that there would be a next year. That Regulus wasn't just planning on vanishing out of my life. And I can't help but hope that we might, after all this ugly Riddle business is behind us, that we might be able to explore the feelings between us. 

It wasn't just that I fancied him. My feelings for Regulus had not lessened just because he had. . .well not rejected me exactly. It was complicated. 

He holds out his arm. 

And I can't help the heady lightness I feel when I place my hand in the crook of his arm, drinking in the intimate closeness, as I step near him. Closer than I had been in days. Giving him space though it made my heart ache.

He had kissed me back. 

We apparate. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the trio horcrux hunting: avoiding snatchers, being hunted by voldemort, camping
> 
> jane ane regulus horcrux hunting: being homebodies and occasionally taking a stroll through london


	25. part II: a very michelle birthday

Michelle refuses to tell me where we're going. Only checking that I've brought a daybag, “You're going to love it,” she says with a wide grin showing off her pearly whites, before checking her makeup in a mirror. Again. 

Penelope's already ready. Hair pulled back, wearing a beige trench coat with navy wide legged trousers and a white turtleneck sweater, checking her watch. “Michelle, let's go or we'll be late.”

“You can just tell me,” I insist. “Promise I'll act incredibly surprised.” 

“No,” Michelle shouts, finally grabbing her bag. “No. It has to be a surprise you wanker! I put in effort.”

Penelope snorts. “You wrote a letter.”

“I wrote a few letters mind you,” Michelle protests, before hurrying us down the stairs from their flat. 

I laugh, following my friends along to wherever they'd decide to take me at eight in the morning. 

It's Penelope who side apparates us both as the resident  _ best at apparition passes her test on the first go and didn't even lose an eyebrow for her troubles _ . 

We end up outside a train station. Only not kings cross but St Pancras. 

I turn to them, “What the bloody hell are you two planning?”

“Not just us,” Penelope says, hurrying us into the station, past the muggles coming and going and being met by their loved ones. 

I follow closely behind even as Michelle gawks at all the muggles, some even with those mobile telephones the size of Hogwarts A History. 

Tonks is easy to spot in the crowd, wearing an oversized leather jacket over a ripped up Hufflepuff yellow flannel with a weird sisters shirt, cargo green jeans, and her signature bubblegum pink hair. She's attracting more attention then if she'd been wearing proper robes. 

There's two people behind her. An older couple. One whose face I’d painted before. Her parents. It's clear Tonks, even with her ever shifting features, takes after her dad, a kindly looking man with big square glasses. 

His wife, Tonk’s mother, is a bit taller than her husband, not a white hair in sight of her perfectly curled black hair. She stands in the middle of the crowd as if she owned the entire station, a regal poise in the very fiber of her being, clad in a wine coloured dress and a black wool coat that's just on this side of being too fancy to be a muggle coat and not robes. 

She bares more than a passing resemblance to Regulus and the portraits I've gotten used to even if they did talk back as if they could believe how I'd gotten to Grimmauld Place. As if I was some curiosity. It's the dark hair and finely chiseled bone structure, but her eyes are a brown almost black color instead of the silver that so many of the portraits have. 

I try to play it cool, hugging Tonk tightly, rapidly making introductions. “This is me dad and mum. They're coming with for a bit because it was dad that helped us figure the muggle bits out.”

“So anyone going to tell me where we're going?” I ask when I'm done hugging Tonks and shaking Mr. Tonks “call me Ted’s” hand and Mrs. Andromeda Tonks’ hand. 

“No,” Michelle cries out at the same time as Penelope and Tonks say, “paris.”

My eyebrows go right up into my forehead. “What! You’re joking!”

Tonks nods eagerly, “see Michelle wrote me about doing something for your birthday. And I remembered me dad mentioning the muggles had dug a tunnel to france.” 

“Now let's get a move on before we miss the train Dora,” Ted says, carrying his carry on as he walks down to the correct platform, all the tickets in his hand. 

Tonks hair turns scarlet to match the apples of her cheeks. “Dad!”

Andromeda smiles ruthlessly, “yes dear. Call her by her proper name. Nymphadora.”

Her hair loses its volume as Michelle crackles. 

We take up a cluster of seats on the train. As the birthday girl, I shove Michelle out of the window seat, “all the better for me to draw,” I say with a smile. Taking my sketchbook out to draw even as I chat with my friends. This had been a surprise. I was completely over the moon. 

But now I had to figure out if I should also make Mr. and Mrs. Tonks pillows for christmas as a thank you. I’d finished embroidering the badgers. That left Penelope’s raven and Regulus’ snake. 

“”Figures,” Michelle says, “we take you on a bloody train to Paris! Muggles, I’ll never understand them, and you're drawing.”

Penelope rolls her eyes. “Only part of it is underwater.”

“You a muggle now,” Michelle says, taking the mickey out of her. 

“No, but I found the whole thing interesting. So I read a bit on it.” She confesses. 

“Still working at that place,” I ask Penelope. 

“No,” she tells us, as Tonks plays with the seat settings, leaning the seat as far back as it’ll go. “I’ve actually gotten my brother, he works as a solicitor you see, to write a letter for me to work in the department of magical creatures. I had a lot of fun visiting the preserve and I've been volunteering at this shelter for magical creatures a bunch. But then his girlfriend said she was leaving her job as head secretary for Mrs. Cornelia Weatherby to go work for the International Confederation of Wizards. So now I've got that job.”

I blink, trying to process that information. 

Tonks asks, “and do you like that job?”

“More than my last,” Penelope answers back. 

“There's wizard lawyers,” I finally say with surprise, before adding, “never let my parents know.”

Tonk snorts. “Me mum was proper raging when I told her I was going to be an auror. Keeps thinking I'll fall dead any moment.”

“She did live through the war,” Michelle notes, for ones sobering up. “Can't imagine she'd be thrilled about you going after dark wizards after that.” 

Tonks rolls her eyes. “That's why I'm going to be the best of the best.” Her seat gets stuck as she leans back. 

I giggle. “I'm sure you will.” It doesn't sound very sincere at all but I am being serious. Tonks is a hard worker. There's no reason she can't be an amazing auror. 

I check my watch, it's only been two hours and we're already pulling into the suburbs of paris. Penelope takes her camera out and starts clicking away. Michelle and Tonks both trying to pose for her. I know there's limitations on portkey distances, so I doubt the wizards had a better way. Or maybe there was a way to internationally floo. 

We all sit outside of the station, as Mr. Tonks hails two cabs down. He and his wife will be staying on in paris. 

“Ugh,” Michelle sighs, “really bloody wish I didn't have work tomorrow.”

“Don't even dare remind me,” Tonks says waving a finger, “the good thing is Moody's been at Hogwarts so my schedule is not at all hectic. Trainees get regular hours to train. Some graveyard shifts shadowing though which are the best!”

I grin shamelessly, “still living with my parents. So I don't know anything about jobs.”

Michelle smacks my arm. “Dick.”

Two cars pull over by us. And Mr. Tonks calls us over. He's muggleborn like me so not entirely useless among muggles when the situation calls for it. 

“Now don't forget the time,” he says, handing Penelope the tickets, knowing his own daughter too well to trust her with important pieces of paper. “And have fun.”

Tonks rolls her eyes, but her hair takes on the softest shade of pink and I know she's touched. She hugs her dad, “see you next week for dinner then? Gotta take advantage while Moody's out. Though there is talk of him retiring.”

“You better.” Her mother states, before rounding on me with a steely gaze, “That's a very nice watch you have there.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

Penelope flips open a little notebook so that she can give the cabbie directions to our first planned destination. The eiffel tower.

“Where did you get it?” Her dark eyes pierce right through me. I realized belatedly why she's even asking. I had a Black family watch on. With Regulus’ house coat of arms on and everything. 

Of course he'd made it sound like it was just a random watch lying around, but from Andromeda’s reaction, it was clearly closer to an heirloom. 

“Just some thrift shop,” I lie. “Had to clean it up a bunch.” 

She smiles sharply. “of course.” And it's obvious she doesn't believe me but doesn't press on. Turning to say goodbye to Tonks before disappearing into a cab with Ted. 

We waste an entire film roll at the eiffel tower; Penelope taking pictures of us and the tower; the reflection of the tower; a crepe held up in front of the tower to make it extra french. 

I just eat my crepe, almost choking as Tonks shifts her hair into a very dirty blonde and sticks her nose in the air doing a very bad and very nasally french accent. 

We don't make it to the Louvre, or half of the items on Penelope's itinerary because we keep getting lost and sidetracked: going into random little shops and pâtisseries. 

It's the best birthday I've ever had and feels like what I imagined being grown up would be like: wonderful days spent with my friends. 

I buy wine for the first time in my life with the coins I'd found in one of Sirius’ drawers. “It's very grown up isn't it. Wine I mean,” I note, feeling tired after a big day out with a capital O. 

Michelle grins, “guess you have to take something for your parents. But we could have a little drink.” 

Penelope shakes her head, “it's never a little drink with you.”

“If my liver doesn't send me to St. Mungos at least once, did I really have fun,” Michelle retorts back. 

Tonks snorts, “that's certainly one way to put it. But wouldn't you rather keep it going for longer?”

We pop open a bottle, transfiguring the bottles of water we'd bought into cups when no ones looking, and proceed to drink our way back to London. 

I'm dead on my feet by the time I get back to Grimmauld Place and also a little unsteady on my feet because of the wine. I hadn't risked apparating, instead take one of the last tube rides home. 

It's only a handful of minutes before midnight when I get in. And of course, I forget to limbo past Walburga Black’s intruder alarm portrait. Her screams would send even a dementor running the other way. 

_ “Mudblood! There's a mudblood in the house of my fathers,”  _ she wails inconsolably even as I chuck off my shoes and stash them away, my hand reaching for my wand to silence her. “ _ Nasty filth! Sullying this noble house!”  _

I'm more concerned with the bag of things I'd bought then with what a long dead woman thought of me. I try to balance the bag in one hand as I take off my coat, and stretch up on my toes to hang it. Kreacher really couldn't have put it any lower? Neither of us was particularly tall. 

He had probably had Regulus at the front of his mind. Like he always did, the funny little elf. 

In the end, it's Regulus coming down the stairs in jeans and a loose long sleeve that shuts the curtains and silences his mother. Following my example, he doesn't bother apologizing for the portrait’s words. 

His usually neat hair has runs through it, sticking out a bit. I wonder if he's left the library at all today. 

Kreacher was only successful about half of the time when he tried to get Regulus to take a break since the problem of Harry Potter arose. 

“You're still awake,” I chastise, before giggling. “Merlin I sound like my mum!” I start my way up the stairs, figuring I'd put my trips goodies away tomorrow. Or later since it was probably midnight by now. 

“I doubt your mother is a bad person to sound like,” he quips easily, taking the bag from my hand before I can protest. 

“Unlike yours,” I tease. I had no idea if that resemblance between portrait and its subject was true to life, but I did know Walburga Black believed all the pure blood nonsense. 

“Makes a great alarm though doesn't she,” he replies, placing the bag on top of a side table in the hall on the third floor. 

It's clear he means to spend the rest of the night going over the same problem. Coming up with a plan for Hogwarts hadn't taken this long. 

“I brought you some wine,” I mention, lingering around. “Seemed very french so. . .” 

He arches a brow. “You were in france!”

“The chunnel,” I shrug, “it was mad quick. Just over two hours to get there. It was Michelle and Tonks’ idea. Apparently it just opened. Tonks’ parents came with but they were going to stay for a few days. Also I think Tonks’ mum is your cousin. Andromeda wasn't it? She recognized my watch.” I raise my hand, the white pearly leather catching even the dim hall lights. 

“Did she say anything,” he said, taking a step towards me, brows furrowing as he looks me over, checking to see if I’d been hexed. 

I roll my eyes, “no. No, but I could tell she knew something was up. I mean I lied obviously and said that I found it at a charity shop, but there’s no way she bought it.”

“No,” he admits, “she wouldn’t have been fooled. It belonged to our grandmother Irma after all.” Then he adds with a mischievous grin that transformed his already handsome face, adding a magnetic allure that I was helplessly drawn to, my heart fluttering in my chest, “How was I to know you’d run into one of a handful of people who’d recognize it.”

I let it slide, my thoughts ebbing and flowing together at this new revelation of who Mrs. Tonks was, “Does that make Tonks’ your cousin? Because that means the world really is small. Or maybe that’s just the wizarding world. I mean, not like there’s a lot of wizards around.”

“First cousin once removed,” he corrects smugly.  _ Nerd. _

“So cousin then.” I reply evenly, tilting my chin up high, crossing my arms over my chest, still not trusting my legs to be steady. The world seemed to have the loveliest tint and sway with all the wine I’d had earlier. 

Regulus chuckles. “Andy won’t say anything. She’s never been much of a rat.”

I nod, trusting his judgement. It wasn’t like I was raging to go after my friend's mum. Oh. “Oh,” I realize, “so you’re the baby of the family aren’t you!”

Regulus rolls his eyes even as red creeps up his neck. “You have seen my family tree before Jane. I don’t know why you’re surprised,” he deadpans. 

Laughing, I take a step towards the open library door, tripping over a teatray Kreacher had left on the floor next to the door. It doesn’t help that I’m already unsteady to begin with, tipsy with wine. It actually tasted worse than whiskey which I hadn’t been expecting. Michelle’s juice liquor concoctions was where it’s at. 

He grabs my arm before I fall over. 

I giggle. 

“How much wine did you have exactly,” he asks, not bothering to hide the amusement in his silver eyes, a warmth to them that actual silver could never hold. 

“Well I originally brought back five bottles for mum and dad and me and you,” I blab as he leads us into the library that no longer looks like the library in beauty and the beast after we’d exchanged cobwebs for sage green plush seats; moldy curtains for a crisp terracotta brocade that caught candlelight wonderfully; and a yves klein blue carpets I liked walking barefoot through. “But then we drank four on the way back. They were all pretty rotten actually. The wine was all acid-y, but in a bad way not like lemonade. I think the bottle Michelle got from Tesco was sweet so. . .I thought french wine would be better is what I’m getting at.” 

Regulus laughs as we both collapse onto the settee, leaning into each other despite having room to stretch out on. It’s easy to relax into the moment even as my pulse races with the air of intimacy as his thigh rests against mine, smushed together out of choice. “Sounds like you had a wonderful birthday.”

“It was almost as nice as the afternoon tea we had,” I say, placing my arm feather-light on his chest, emboldened by the wine but more than willing to be brushed off--again. “I think it helps that the champagne was really nice. Like drinking a juice box but in a fancy cup.”

He throws his head back against the settee when he laughs. My heart swells at the sight of him completely uninhibited, full of a lightness and happiness I never saw within him back in Blackpool. 

When he finally stops laughing, he manages to reply, “Jane, you utterly ridiculous woman,” before dissolving into laughter again. 

I smile shamelessly, “are you just figuring that out now? Did you forget the fact I spent an entire summer tie dying clothes with onion skins and beets and running around painting, not to mention the whole embroidery phase-,” I’m not sure where I’m going with this tangent, and I never get the chance to just follow the thread of conversation wherever it ends up because Regulus closes the distance between us, raising his hand to cup my cheek as he presses his lips against mine. 

I don’t question the turn the night has taken, kissing him back eagerly: in the way I’d only dreamed of and had assumed probably wouldn’t happen in life (again). I let that thought shrivel up and die, choosing to lose myself in the taste of his well formed, slightly haughty, lips against mine, a lingering sweetness from the generous helpings of sugar he took in his tea. I shift, my hands against his chest, mindful of his aversion to touch, I keep my hold light, letting him take control. 

His hold on my cheek changes as he moves his hand higher up so that the tips of his fingers thread through my thick dark hair. Regulus deeps our kiss, taking my bottom lip between his. 

It’s then that my mind decides to catch up with me, through the glasses of wine and wishful thinking, I pull back and away from him. “I thought you said,” I trail off with a frown. “Why would you say those things and then kiss me?” My voice comes out harsher than I expected and I can’t tell whether it's anger or hurt. 

Regulus ducks his head, looking away from me. 

I was tired of this awkward dance between us. The last thing I wanted was to wake up tomorrow not knowing where we stood--again. 

“Regulus?”

His silver eyes meet mine. “I-,” he opens his mouth before closing it again, pursing his mouth as he tries to figure out what he wants to say. 

“You say we can’t-that there can’t be anything between us and then you go and kiss me,” I utter, slumping down against the settee, feeling awful as I come down from the wine soaked clouds. Hurt, it was definitely more hurt than anger. “And I was, I guess I was trying to accept that,” I ramble on, closing my eyes, the last things I wanted were tears, “it’s not as if I’d want to lose you over this, whatever this is, but if you said. . .” My throat chokes up.

I take a deep breath. 

It’s only on the exhale that I feel calm enough to open my eyes again. 

“You’re right,” Regulus responds quietly, “I shouldn’t have-it wasn’t right for me to kiss you.”

“But I want you too,” I groan, because that was the root of the problem, the way my heart swelled when he was around, “what I’m trying to say is that I can do friends, we can just be friends if that's what you want. It’s okay. I can respect that, but you can’t say that and then kiss me!” 

And there came the anger. 

Regulus waits to see if I’m done, before he speaks up. “I’m sorry. I know it’s no excuse, but I wasn’t thinking. Even though I should have been as the adult in this situation.”

I roll my eyes, “I’m of age.”

“Jane-”

“No,” I frown. “Just admit that you want this as much as I do, stop hiding behind the whole age thing. It's not that big of a deal!”

“I'm not hiding,” he replies, the lines around his furrowed brows revealing the depth of his agitation, “and it's not a small thing. Jane, you've never even been in a relationship before.”

“You don't know that,” I snap, sitting up straight.

“I do, of course I do,” he replies, “you would've told me.”

“Because you're my friend! Probably my closest friend if I'm being honest.” I swallow thickly. “And it makes me feel like absolute shite when you tell me you don't want me but then kiss me anyways. Do you even like me at all,” I dare to ask, needing the answer more than I needed air to breath. 

Regulus shifts, shoulders oriented towards me as if he was the moon and I was the earth, keeping a generous amount of space between us. “Of course I do Jane. That's never been a question, at least not for me. The depth of my feelings for you,” he trails off, holding my gaze, “But, and I know you don't agree, you are young. And maybe I'm not that old but it's still a significant difference.” 

My thoughts stop at his words. He felt as strongly as I did. It felt good that he acknowledged it out loud, like I wasn't just going crazy imagining things, reading into every little gesture between us in the past few months. “Well I still think you're being an idiot. But if you just want to be friends then I'm fine with that,” I say tightly, not feeling okay with that idea at all. “I just don't want to be walking on eggshells around each other,” I admit, “I hate how weird things have been between us lately.”

A faint smile forms on his mouth, “I think I’m only being a little bit of an idiot.”

I snort, a tight hot feeling rising in my chest as I drink the sight of him in. I wasn't sure how we were going to be friends when I felt like this. I had never felt this strongly about anything before. 

“Friends then,” Regulus says, hand outstretched like a complete knob, all prim and proper.

I didn't know what to do with all the love I had for him. I wish I had someone to talk to about this. But I didn't think Michelle would take it seriously. Maybe Penelope? But then how would I even explain. . .I bit my lip, nodding.

“Friends,” I agree, “can we hug?” 

He nods. 

It's nice to wrap my arms around him once more now that we've aired out our feelings and made it out the other side even though I don't feel better, I am glad at least we're okay. We're going to be okay, I think as I rest my chin against his shoulder. 

“It'll pass.” 

I don't trust myself to speak. 

“Jane,” Regulus says softly against the shell of my ear as my hands tighten their hold on the soft fabric of his shirt, “it'll pass.” 

“Will it?” My voice a small tremor. It felt impossible that I might ever move on. Where would the love go? Even if I wasn't in love with him, I loved him. Friend seemed such a small finite word for what I felt, not nearly enough to encapsulate how I felt. 

I feel him nod, a slight nod of the head, before he pulls away from me. “We can talk about that then.”

A small flame of hope ignited in my chest like the strike of a matchstick, small and delicate. “So then. . .maybe. . .down the road. . .,” I can't help but utter. 

Regulus shakes his head, “Jane-don’t.”

“You brought this up,” I counter. “And it's not as if you don't feel the same. You just said so yourself.”

“It's a terrible idea. Trust me.”

“Oh,” I say with a roll of my eyes, “you're a seer now.”

“Jane, you're barely 18. I refuse to be the dirty old man in this situation.”

“It's not like you're some perv on the high street,” I say caustically. “You're my friend. Besides why would you throw this away just because of what people might think!” 

“It's not just that,” he rubs his nose bridge. “We're going in circles and I get it, you're young and no one at that age feels their youth while they're in the midst of it-”

I roll my eyes, cutting in. “It's a yes or no question. Do you want to be with me?” 

Regulus sighs, resting his arms against his knees, “I care for you too much to think about what I want. I can only think about what's best for you.”

“What if you're wrong though?”

“No one is ever sure they're doing the right thing,” he admits. 

“We could be good together,” I try. “Even if it's not now. We make a crack team hunting horcruxes and fixing this place up.”

Regulus snorts, lips turning up in a smile. “So what are you saying then Jane,” he replies in a tone that says he already knows what I'm thinking.

“If it happens,” I shrug, “it happens. Later on, when-” When what? We weren't hunting you know who. When I wasn't fresh out of school. When he got his head out of his arse. 

“I suppose.” 

“But no funny business now,” I tease, scrunching my toes in the carpet. 

This time, he really does laugh, even with the red creeping up his neck. 

It was nice, knowing we could start joking around about things now. 

“I don’t suppose you solved the little hiccup in our plans while I was off in Paris getting day drunk?”

“Well,” he says, dragging out the word, “I was in fact able to solve our HP problem.”

“Really,” I ask, even as my early morning start wears on me. I’ve been up for almost twenty four hours. 

He nods gravely, “we have to avada kedavra him.”

I feel myself tense up, before I catch an impish look in his eyes. I smack his chest lightly. “You wanker. What's the real plan?”

“A lot of complex runes and a spell that might or might not work to draw out Riddle’s shrivelled up soul,” he finally says somberly, “that’s plan A at least. I was also thinking about opening up the scar on his forehead and pouring basilisk venom and healing him before he dies, but even I can’t conjure phoenix tears out of thin air. If none of my ideas work. . .” he trails off. 

The killing curse, I think with a frown. 

There was always that to fall back on. Plan B. 

I realize I still had to figure out what I was wearing to the first triwizard challenge. Something that said, journalist but would also let me deal with whatever happened that day. There was so much that could go wrong with so many eyes around. 

X. Lovegood had suggested in postscript that yellow was a lucky color. 

As a hufflepuff myself, I was inclined to agree. 

“You think if I apparate to bed I’d have lost all my muggleness,” I joke anyways, but settle into the comfortable settee that I’d curled up and napped on before. It was better curled up with Regulus. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lots to discuss, mainly how they both didn't get any resolution that theyre happy with but they both are willing to compromise because friendship. also how they went "ah yes friends" and fell asleep cuddling. 
> 
> was not 100% on this chapter but i think i gave it my best 
> 
> hope you like it :)


	26. part II: the hogwarts express (again)

Unlike when I took the train up to school, platform 9 and ¾ wasn’t crowded. Only a few wizards and witches standing about in robe suits of the corporate variety: ministry officials going up for the first challenge like us. They create a sea of navy and brown cloaks, making me feel like I had made the right choice in wearing a tweed cloak. We were going up to Scotland after all. 

Regulus had dug up an old camera from one of the many rooms in Grimmauld Place. I was pretty sure at this point that none of the former inhabitants of Grimmauld Place had ever heard of spring cleaning. 

Wearing a tailored black suit and robe, Regulus fits right in. He’s charmed his dark hair into an auburn colour, masking his scars, and having let his skin take on a sunkissed tone which he never came close to, not naturally able to tan. His normally silver eyes which I love so much are a mahogany brown. 

In contrast, instead of playing it safe and inconspicuous, I had dressed to fit in with the aesthetic of the Quibbler. My dress was seafoam green, darkening to the emerald colour of black lake at the hem, vegetal figural beaded designs ran along the hem and bust, but the burst of colour alone had me stand out among the handful of people going up to Hogsmeade station. At least my cloak was brown. 

The radish earrings definitely got a few stares. 

It's easy to get a compartment to ourselves when the train is less than half full. 

No one bothers us. 

We were arriving a day early since the task was going to be at noon and I didn’t want to be tired when we weren’t sure what kind of defenses Riddle had placed on the diadem. The locket felt heavy in my pocket. But I felt the need to have a backup plan in case we were caught. 

It had been easy to snatch up while forcing Regulus downstairs to stretch his legs.

I look out from the window, watching the scenery go by and feeling very wistful about going back to Hogwarts when often, students never did after leaving school. It had been more than a year now since I had left to start my last year among the commotion the Sirius had caused. 

“Last time we were stopped by dementors,” I casually point out, digging my sketchbook out from the bag I’d brough. Grimmauld Place really was a treasure trove when it came to needing just about anything as long as you didn’t mind thoroughly cleaning. “Professor Lupin apparently cast a patronus. Mine’s never been really good. None of the memories I use are happy enough apparently.” It had driven me nuts. I was generally a pretty happy person so it didn’t make sense that my patronus was non corporal.

“Well can’t say I’m sorry to have missed the dementors,” Regulus grins, “but I still think you should’ve left the radish earrings behind.”

“They’re to keep away the nargles,” I snap back, doodling mindlessly. A random tree here. An apple there. 

“Nargles aren’t real.” He rolls his eyes, sitting back against the bench. 

“Just because something hasn’t been discovered and written about extensively,” I retort back, “doesn’t mean it’s not real.” 

“Not real until proven real.”

I roll my eyes, sketching the compartment out. It looked the same from the last time I had ridden the train, but I felt worlds away from the girl who’d been on her way to finish her seventh year, or even the girl who was completely lost having finished school. 

My linework had improved tremendously thanks to the many buildings I had sketched in London. Even freehand, the lines didn’t slope down or up too much, seemingly straight which was all that mattered. I’m not sure I would even want my lines to be perfectly straight. 

Regulus flips a book open: fiction for once instead of some thick old book on curses. 

It's an all around boring train ride despite the hard rock of stress in my gut, knowing the plan for tomorrow and being in the midst of ministry officials who were still searching for the culprits that had broken into Gringotts even if the news of the breakin had subsided; the news cycle had moved onto coverage of the triwizard tournament that had not been seen in over a century. 

As if sensing my unease that has been building as the train chugs into the station, Regulus leans forward, shutting his book close with a hand, and squeezing my hand. He only seems to be doing better, his expression carefully neutral despite the stiffness in his shoulders. 

I know he didn’t sleep well last night, only having turned in for the night hours after me according to Kreature who’d packed us lunch. 

Good foresight on his part; the trolley lady does not come by. 

“The attention will be on the first task,” Regulus says comfortingly: choosing his words carefully in case anyone was listening. Even in a compartment by ourselves, he was remaining incredibly careful. 

We were so close now. 

“I know,” I reply, leaning forward, closer to him. “Just make sure you rest tonight. I made some dreamless sleep potion if you think it’ll help.”

“When did you brew that,” he says with a frown, trying to think of a time I would’ve done it during. We spent practically every moment together since we lived together, plotting Riddle’s destruction together. 

“You took five hours in the shower yesterday,” I tease. 

“I was cutting my hair,” he protests, the corners of his mouth lifting up, eyes sparkling with amusement. 

“And you did a much better job than I ever did.”

Regulus laughs easily. 

The train horn sounds ruining the moment. 

I sit up, having made myself at home on the bench. The train had stopped moving, now ready to let the passengers out into Hogsmeade. 

I wave my wand over my dress, smoothing out any wrinkles as Regulus gets our bag. 

“I’ve never walked into Hogsmeade from the train station,” I comment, letting the people in front of us through first. 

“We’re not walking,” Regulus says as we finally get off the train, the air bitingly cold this far north. Hogwarts was up in the mountains which didn’t help. “We’re taking a carriage.”

“Don’t be lazy,” I reply, the idea of trudging through the snow like some arctic explorer almost dying from frostbite taking root in my mind, “it’ll be fun.”

“No. It’ll be cold,” he deadpans back. 

“Fun.”

With a sharp grin he replies, “and I’m incredibly tired. Didn’t get enough sleep last night you see. About to fall asleep any minute now.”

I giggle, giving in. “Fine. We’ll take a carriage up to the village.”

He gets us a carriage trailing after the other two taken up by the ministry officials all piled up with each other. The ministry’s stipend couldn't be generous. Or maybe they were huddling for warmth. 

I cast a warming charm so we can have the top down. “Are thestrals pretty,” I wonder, gazing at the place I imagine the creatures to be at. Studying them in Care of Magical Creatures was hard when you couldn’t actually see them. 

“They just look like emancipated horses,” he says shrugging blithely, “with giant bat wings.”

I smack his arm lightly. “Don’t be a jerk.” 

He laughs. “They do though!” 

“I’ve always found it a bit sad really,” I say, “for such gentle creatures to be associated with death. Not their fault though is it.”

“No,” Regulus says with a wistful sigh. 

The little village of Hogsmeade is a welcome sight. It’s not december yet, but they have already started to slowly put up the decorations for christmas. Thick pine wreaths and garlands have started to appear on doors and wrapped around porches. Everburning candles float in the sky, filling the air with the smell of cinnamon and gingerbread. 

And the three broomsticks stands out, having already gotten two christmas trees, still undecorated, to line the entrance. 

We had room reservations there. 

We have to trudge the rest of the way through. The air frigid enough to cut through my tweed cloak. I love it. It does make me feel entirely like an explorer finally finding salvation. 

The inside of the three broomsticks is as cozy as ever.

And there’s the same type of person that was with us on the train; ministry looking officials; dour looking journalists nursing a bottle of whiskey; and the village folk themselves looking a lot more cheerful. 

I catch Madame Rosmerta at the bar. “Check in. I believe it’s under Saldana.” The one drawback to this plan was I was using my real name which could be a problem if we were caught. I’d be blowing up any chance I had at a normal life after his horcrux business was completed. But that was fine. I was sure Dumbledore would be helpful if I just explained things. 

“Ah yes,” she wipes her hands on her apron, “just a second love.” She waves her hand, pouring a pint of mead, and passes it to a dour looking man with an awful little mustache and equally terrible bowler hat. 

Then I follow her through the tables and up the stairs to the rooms, Regulus on my heels. “Just this night right? I’ve got so many people because of the tournament going on.”

“Yes,” I tell her with a smile. “I just feel lucky enough to be seeing it with my own eyes. A perk of the job.” 

“Ministry or,” the older woman asks, looking at my fanciful dress over skeptically.

“Journalist. For the Quibbler.”

“Ah,” she smiles, “I was going to say you don’t look the type. Crouch keeps a very professional sort working in his department. ‘Cept for Ludo, still caught up in his glory days. I used to have a poster of him up on my wall you know. They do say never meet your heroes.”

I snort. “That’s why I try not to have heroes. Not one for putting people up on a pedestal.” 

“Smart,” Madame Rosmerta grins. “English breakfast is included,” she explains, unlocking room 208, “just let me know if you need any more blankets. I know it can get chilly even with the fire and warming charms. “

“Thank you.”

She nods at me and Regulus behind me. “Enjoy your stay at the three broomsticks inn.” And then she’s moving back down the hall, hurrying to get back to her clients. 

The room was just what I imagined a room at the three broomsticks to look: small and cozy with two beds that looked older than my entire house. 

I chuck my cloak off onto the bed by the window, casting a muffliato charm on the room while Regulus puts up wards, drawing runes with his wand into the wall and door. I obscure the window last, taking care that we can see outside but no one from the outside can peer in. 

The lights from the castle are just visible from here, but I can't make out the shape of Hogwarts in the dark of the night it blends in perfectly. 

I unlace my tennis shoes, but feel far from sleep, my mind racing over the room I was sure the diadem was in. The only problem was that the room didn't always appear.

What were we going to do if it didn't appear for us? The seventh floor was a long way away from the pitch where the first task was to take place. We could easily explain it away. Sorry, we got lost wouldn't cut it. 

Regulus doesn't look to be doing any better, running a hand through his hair as he hangs up his cloak. 

“It’ll open,” I reassure myself out loud, “it's gonna open. I've found it before.”

“Well how did you find the room before,” he asks, coming down to sit next to me on the bed, carefully taking off his boots. 

I shrug, “I was just wandering around the castle. First it was the Blackpool room. Then I couldn't find it at all the rest of first and second year. In third I found it as a charity shop lost items type of room. But it's not always there.” The entire plan hinges on a room that is only sometimes there.

“Let's just worry about getting into the school first yeah?”

I flash the shinny pins in my cloak pocket, “we’re getting in. And I guess if we don't get caught I have to write Lovegood another article. But that's really the least of our problems. Krum seems a good choice considering he's a professional quidditch player.”

“It's the Quibbler,” Regulus sneers, “just make something up.”

“Didn't you say I have a good third eye,” I say, arching a brow. 

“I did say that,” he admits with a grin, “but that doesn't change the fact that the quibblers rubbish.”

“Shut up,” I laugh, laying down on the bed, “they're paying me 5 galleons. So I intend to do my job.”

“Just phone it in,” Regulus smirks. 

“No.” 

“You can just phone it in.”

I shake my head. “I'd feel bad.” I tell him because it was the truth. It wasn't Lovegood’s fault he'd made a convenient way for us to sneak into hogwarts; break-in was such an ugly word. 

Regulus smiles fondly at me before whispering softly “Jane.”

“Mm.”

“You could always get Kreacher to write it. He seems very keen on the quibbler now that you’ve been published in it.” 

I grin, “I’ve grown on him like a fungus.”

He snorts, sitting down on his bed for the night. 

“I feel like hogsmeade hasn't changed a bit. Was Madame Rosemerta here when you were a student?” I ask, wondering if that would be Michelle in some London pub years from now, knowing every customer by name. 

He nods, “I want to say she was in Andy’s year if I remember correctly. Andy was always getting on with everybody. She was good at that inane and meaningless chatter. . .it must’ve been Andy. i don’t think Bella was good with people. At least not the last few times I saw her. They passed for twins. People often mistook one for the other” He looks mournful of the family that he’d once had, even knowing how they had fallen apart over the last wizarding war, mostly fallen on the wrong side of a war. “I think that's why everyone was so surprised when she ran off. No one saw it coming unlike my brother.”

“You’re family’s so depressing,” I utter thoughtlessly, “don’t you have any friends you’d go to honeydukes with or owl over the holidays. Not that I had an owl to send letters with but I would have to L-Michelle if I could.”

It’s a lightbulb turning on in his mind, the way the line of his shoulder tense up like a hippogriff weighing your worth. “Do me a favor and stay away from Crouch.”

“Who,” I ask, recognizing the name from the ones that frequently appeared in the Prophet. 

“The man downstairs. The one with the bowler hat.” He explains, looking up at the exposed wooden beams on the ceiling. “He prosecuted the majority of the death eater trials back in the day.”

I frown. 

“Including his son. Gave people who were unwitting informants life sentences,” he adds. “Fell out of favor after the harsh sentence he gave his son actually. People thought he’d been too hard. Barty. . .he knew when to play the helpless daddy’s boy card. Didn’t work out the way he expected unfortunately, with a father like his. Though he was always an eager little shit when it came to hexing muggles.”

“You were death eaters together,” I surmise. His past was a minefield of death eaters and trauma. “Crouch’s son.”

He smiles sardonically, “I know. The man going after Riddle and his followers. All while not knowing that his son's taken the dark mark.” Regulus sighs, a mournful look in his eyes. “Crouch never liked me. I think. No-no yes that's right. I remember him not liking me. It might have been because of my father. . . or maybe it was my uncle Cygnus. Either way, he wasn't big on me and his son being friends. We were friends before Riddle. Barty. Me. Evan. The Carrow twins. Occasionally Severus when he wasn’t running after Avery and Mulciber. Augustus was a better friend to Severus than either one of those idiots. They just wanted to copy his work. Being halfblood to them was barely any better than being muggleborn.” He shrugs even with the wistful look in his eyes as memories long past rush to the forefront of his mind for the first time in ages. “We all later took on the dark mark so I suppose Crouch was right about the lot of us. Thought we were a bad influence on his son from the start.”

“What happened,” I ask right now that he’s opened up about his time at hogwarts. He didn’t often talk about his past. How could he, when he had chosen the wrong side of the war. 

Regulus runs a hand through his hair, before meeting my searching gaze. “Evan was killed by the aurors. Alecto and Amycus escaped Azkaban. They sold someone people out I think. Or maybe they claimed to have been imperio’d. I wasn’t well enough to read the papers let alone find the daily prophet when the trails were going on.” He scoffs before continuing. “Barty died in Azkaban. My point is. . .Crouch won’t care to hear any explanations if he catches us. He made a name for himself for being ruthless against you-know-who.”

“Okay,” I nod, “I’ll avoid the man without making it look like I’m avoiding him then.” I dunno how I was going to do that, but I was sure he’d do all the work for me. Mr. Crouch didn’t seem the type to strike up a random conversation. 

“I think I will take the dreamless sleep potion,” he adds, pinching the bridge of his nose, letting his eyes fall close. 

“Okay.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope u enjoyed this chapter :)


	27. part II: with baited breath

“She's gotta be taking the mickey,” I utter quietly when we get our breakfast. It's not really an english breakfast but scottish eggs, toast, and mash. It's not bad, especially the scottish eggs, but it's not the full english breakfast Madame Rosmerta claimed it to be yesterday. Kreacher had spoiled me these last few weeks-months. Had it already been months?

Regulus pours us both tea, adding only a bit of milk to my cup, “she's got to have her fun somehow. Dealing with so many students over the years.”

I snort. “True.”

Mr. Crouch and Percy Weasley take a light breakfast in comparison at another table, off to the side and out of the limelight: coffee and toast. 

There's a table full of ministry employees listening to a very charming older man who's conversation manages to carry over to our table. I dunno how he's so engaged this early in the morning, before anyone's had their tea. 

But even with the knot of anxiety in my stomach, I feel the anticipation for the task ahead. Everyone wants to see how the champions do. 

I'm wearing the radish earrings again, a spot of fuchsia among the powder pink of my dress for the day. Another borrowed set of robes courtesy of Grimmauld Place. Even though the food’s good, I can barely eat, feeling more and more nervous as the time to walk up to the castle approaches. 

The first task begins at noon. 

It's only 9 in the morning and I already have a lump in my stomach. 

“Have a date Rita,” Madame Rosemerta says scathingly as an older blonde woman comes down the stairs, stopping in front of every shiny surface. There's not a hair out of place and she has a full face of makeup on this early in the morning. Her blue eyeshadow offsets the green leather iridescent skirt suit. 

Her glasses manage to hide the wrinkles around her eyes. 

“Rita skeeter,” Regulus says with a whisper. “she's just landed a steady job with the Prophet. Made her name on the gossip rags.”

I nod, sipping my tea. 

Rita sneers, looking at Madame Rosmerta over with a critical eye. The barmaid is dressed tamely compared to the journalist, choosing comfort over heels and makeup, clad in a purple fisherman's sweater and a beige wool skirt with sturdy brown boots. Her pony tail has strands of hair falling out, but the warm and friendly expression on Rosmerta's features leaves her as the more beautiful of the two women in my opinion. 

“Still working,” Rita looks around the room as if the woman's not staying here herself, “here.”

Madame Rosmerta rolls her eyes, “want breakfast or not Rita?” 

“Just tea.” 

Regulus adds, “she's covering the tournament for the prophet.”

“Didn't she leave out two of the four champions out of her last article,” I whisper back.

He nods. 

I could probably steal her job. Maybe I should be a journalist. 

11 comes around to soon for my liking and soon, along with most of the other people in the room, we are on our way up to the castle. Regulus and I pin the badges onto our cloaks after we're bundled up. The navy cloak is thick and warm, a shield against the early morning frost. There's painted pink flowers that slowly bloom as I walk. 

He puts up the pretense of actually being a photographer well, halting to take a picture of the castle from the trail leading from the village up to the school. 

Rita goes by in a carriage along with Ludo Bagman. 

Crouch walks ahead despite being older than my parents, not stopping for any breaks. 

I keep one hand in my pocket, around my wand handle. It's the stress. But I don't reach for Regulus, keeping our cover intact. It's better if no one thinks we're together when we might get caught. 

The castle gates are in sight when a big black mutt comes running out of the woods, barking and halting the procession of professionals going up for the tournament. It's dirty, the black fur matted down, with a fierce snarl. 

Percy Weasly looks around as if waiting to see if anyone else is going to do something about it, his eyes flitting about the other witches and wizards. 

My hand goes to my wand but I decide not to act first, fearing the attention it might bring. Merlin, I've become paranoid in the last few months. 

The dog continues barking, running up and down, nose in the air as if sniffing something. Maybe he'd caught a scent of a squirrel. Or maybe it was hoping to get a bit of food. I can see the ribs poking out. Hardly healthy. 

I wish I had saved something from my breakfast this morning. But I have nothing to give the poor thing. I'm sure he'd look better with a shower and flea medication. Maybe raw steak.

Did dogs eat raw steak?

Mr. Crouch doesn't falter, trudging on even as people gawk at the dog. Barking and yapping and running up and down: snarling as one wizard tries to approach. 

It sniffs the air, looking us over with a very uncanny intelligence that some animals possessed. Sometimes animals seemed all too human. 

Especially pixies with their tiny human faces. And house elves were undoubtedly sentient creatures even with their status as beings by the ministry. 

A witch rolls her eyes and sends a jet of water at the big black dog.

It goes scurrying back off into the woods: standing among the tree line, looking back at our procession. 

I swear it's wolf like grey eyes meet mine, its gaze glaring daggers at our group. I frown, glancing up the gates being opened. 

When I look back, the dog is gone.

“A stray,” Regulus says with a frown, “I'm amazed it's survived this long in this weather. It'll die come snow if someone doesn't take it in.”

“Don't they have a shelter or something,” I wonder. “I know they did at the Woolwitch preserve Penelope and I went to.”

He shrugs in response. 

“Don't shrug,” I say with a yelp, “that poor dog! What if it dies? Maybe Penelope wants a dog?”

“She’ll want a dog. Not a mutt.”

I look back towards the woods, but I can't see any sign of the dog.

“It's probably feral and rabies infested,” Regulus says frowning deeply.

“Haven't wizards cured rabies though,” I point out. 

He doesn't respond, as it's our turn up at the gate. Professor Vector is wrapped up in a grey knitted shawl over a deep purple cloak, her pantsuit only just visible underneath. She has her wand out.

Her dark brown eyes, the color of a strongly brewed coffee that Regulus likes to drink when he's having a bad day, only glance at us before focusing on the pins. 

She'd rune’d them. 

That much we figured out early on. 

Professor Vector points her wand and they warm up. But Regulus has long since doctored the pins. 

They don't reveal his disguise. 

And since I am sincere in my job for the quibbler, they cool down after only a few seconds. 

Vector looks up, with a tight smile, “go on in. The first task will take place at the quidditch pitch. There's a box set aside for the press and Ministry.” Then she's inspecting the badges on a trio of witches with well starched black robes and stern faces. More than likely security for the judges. Mr. Crouch and Ludo Bagman were heads at the ministry after all. 

Neither of us look at each other, just follow the path down to the pitch. It wasn't time to disappear after all. We had to be present enough so we wouldn't be asked after. 

Only once the first task started, the whole school piling into the stadium and leaving the castle nearly empty. It would make sneaking up to the seventh floor much easier. 

There's a tent on one side of the pitch. A huge blue and pink think. A ship down by the lakeside, complete with a floating set of wooden planks leading to shore. The quidditch hoops have been taken down. 

A lot of changes have happened in the short time I've been gone. 

Regulus stares out towards the pitch. He hasn't been here in much longer. His brow furrows, and he blinks rapidly as if trying not to cry but his eyes are dry. 

I reach for his arm, squeezing it lightly as I point out the tent, pretending I'm just showing him something. “You alright?” I whisper. 

He doesn't nod. “I-it's just.” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. 

“It's 1994,” I offer helpfully, letting go of his arm reluctantly. 

He gives a small nod, but his gaze is still wistful as he looks over to where the quidditch hoops are usually at. I can't tell if he's lost in memories or just feeling nostalgic. 

I look towards the tent and make to go take our seats now, as we'd previously planned back at home when Rita Skeeter comes up right next to me. “They've cancelled quidditch. Can you believe,” she says loudly in her shrill voice. “Both Hogwarts champions were on teams. Never was sporty myself.” 

I force myself to smile even if she does rub me the wrong way. She hasn't done anything to me, but with what I've seen of her character, I wouldn't want to stick around and find out. “I'm terrible on a broom.”

She laughs fakely, like a goat bleating. “Well, I take it you're here representing. . .what was that nutters paper again?”

I frown deeply. “Mr. Lovegood’s not a nutter. I find his magazine to be incredibly thoughtful and poignant.” Even if some of the claims had little backing I don't say. 

She smiles. This time it reaches her eyes, as she reaches out to tap my radish earring with a smirk. “Are you coming to see the champions before the first task?”

I don't flinch. “No,” I say, unbothered. “I don't want to distract them before the first task.” 

She scoffs, “be my guest then.” And then she's running off into the tent. 

“The benches haven't improved,” Regulus notes. The pitch has been transformed into some sort of spanish bull rider stadium, with rocks and foliage growing in clumps around the arena floor. But nothing hints at what the first task might be. 

My curiosity is piqued even knowing I won't be seeing any of the champions' first task. 

We're up by the last bench, nearest the stairs; the row was marked for the quibbler. I imagine all the Ministry folk thought much alongside the same lines as Rita Skeeter. 

I was going to write the article and choose Cedric. He'd been completely overlooked by the press despite being a champion. Just like Hufflepuffs always were.

Regulus takes a photo of the transformed pitch. “Wait until the first champion comes out. And don't turn your back on that Skeeter woman.”

“Glad we’re on the same page,” I reply back easily, my hands itching to sketch, but I settle for fiddling with the cloth of my pocket. “Maybe I never know when to stop talking but at least I don't go around invading people's personal space.”

“Give yourself more credit,” Regulus replies, looking over at me with a smile, “you might be nosy but you can read to the room. And know when to back off. And most importantly, are worth a million as a friend.”

I smile, blushing, “you’re just saying that to be nice.”

He laughs, “Jane. I'm serious. You're always unabashedly yourself. Able to make conversation with anyone, making friends out of the men of the deli. Sometimes it's hard for me to even ask for the check.”

Pensively, I ask, “was it always hard for you?”

He shrugs. “I don't remember what I was like before. At least not well enough to say anything for sure. Just. . .just the gut churning feeling of everything. Being lost and scared all the time.”

I frown. 

“The doctors back at the muggle hospital,” he explains as the students fill the stands, decked out in their school and house colors, “they said it was trauma induced memory loss. The memories might or might not come back. And some have but not all.”

There's thunderous applause as wizards set up a dragon's nest. Merlin’s beard. “They're not-are they really going to have a dragon!” 

Regulus tilts his chin. 

Rita's standing behind the judges, notepad in the air next to her, furiously writing down everything that's happening. The three heads of the schools wave towards the students, taking a seat in the row of benches next to us, among the staff and professors. 

I look at Regulus. 

He nods, meeting my eye grimly. 

It was time. 

A silver blue dragon emerges into the stadium and the crowd goes wild. Including the so-called professionals among us. 

It's the perfect moment to slip away.

The castle is deserted. 

Mrs. Norris is nowhere in sight as we walk up the stairs; Regulus following me up to the seventh floor room. It’s hard to keep from running up the stairs, convinced someone will spot us and yell, but no one does. It seems the whole school is down at the pitch. 

And the path up to the room of trinkets was clear. 

I had to keep reminding myself to walk, not run, as I glanced back at Regulus, over my shoulder, paranoid as I’d never been before. Perhaps it was years of being a student here, that had me anticipating detention for sneaking around. 

“Stop glancing back at me,” Regulus comments, though he looks as skittish as I feel, gaze flitting around, on the lookout for anyone still in the castle, hand in his pocket no doubt grasping his wand. I doubt Doumbledore would have left the castle unguarded. Especially after Sirius Black breaking in last year.

I can't help the laughter that rises out of my chest. 

“What’s so funny,” Regulus asks. 

Shaking my head, I reply, “it’s just your brother broke in last year and now you’re breaking in,” I snort, feeling a bit hysterical about the whole thing. 

“We can laugh about the situation later,” Regulus says tightly, urging me on, “when we’re both far away from here.”

My feet carry me forward, instinctively knowing the way to the room. 

The seventh floor is deserted, even the portraits seem to be crowded around the windows, jockeying for a glimpse of the pitch, ignoring us. 

But as we come to the spot I know the entrance appears at, there's nothing. 

Not a door in sight. 

Just the long stretch of corridor. 

“Well,” Regulus asks contentiously, looking over at me with a furrowed brow. 

“I did say it doesn’t alway appear. And it's not always the same room,” I huff out, thinking back on all my previous experiences. 

“We don’t have time,” he responds through a clenched jaw. 

I roll my eyes, pacing around, as I try to think, arms crossed over my chest. “It was just there sometimes. As if I knew what I was looking for. Didn’t exactly come with an instruction manual.”

He looks around the corridor before casting a muffliato around us, buying precious time. “Well then think very hard about the room you want to appear.”

“I’m trying,” I retort, halting midstep. It wasn’t exactly easy to think under all this pressure. Ideally, we’d be back before the final champion did their task and no one would’ve noticed us missing. That plan seemed to be going up in smoke. 

What I really wanted was to be able to think, but the room was always just there. I never had to try for it before. And usually if it wasn’t there I’d just leave but that wasn’t an option right now. Fuck, we were going to get caught weren’t we? 

There was no better opportunity to check the school for the diadem, which I was sure Riddle had found because of course he had. The wizard was a match for Professor Dumbledore himself. 

“Jane. . .” Regulus says, catching my attention. “Look.”

A door finally appears. A door that’s painted a rich shade of moroccan blue, the handle a thin sliver embellishment that only had to be pushed to open. 

It’s not the right door. 

Bloody hell. Lady luck was not in my corner today. 

“That’s not it,” I wave off. “It’s not the right room.”

Regulus furrows his brow with a frown as he walks over to me. “Jane, breathe.”

“How! We need to get the diadem,” I hiss out harshly. 

His hands grip my shoulders steadily, “just breathe.”

I look up into his silver eyes and take a deep breath, feeling the seconds go by. We were running out of time. I shut my eyes tightly and try to breathe: really try this time. My hands reach up to grasp his wrists, grounding myself to the world. 

Panicking right now was no use. 

And I’d faced a dragon. Nearly got toasted to a crisp but still.

I empty my head of all my thoughts whirling like billywigs, and slowly the knot of anxiety in my chest eases up. 

_ I need the room of lost things.  _

In the blink of an eye, the door transforms. 

Where the blue once jumped out in the corridor, the door to the room of lost things is a worn natural wood color, the grain flowing against the oak like a river of raw umber. A door that appeared to be as old as the rest of the castle. 

“Is this-,” Regulus asks, looking over at me, his hands still on my shoulders. 

I nod, “yes,” before stepping away from Regulus and towards the door. This was it. The diadem. 

I twist the handle of the door and step inside. 

****  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things come to a head. and so many cameos aka in which i tried to give so much fleshing out to background characters in harry potter. as well as jane losing her cool. hope u enjoyed whats really part one of like a three chapter arc within the fic :)


	28. Part II: the traitor, the phoenix, and the hanged man

Inside is better than I remembered. Piles and piles stretched as far as the eye could see of long abandoned textbooks and cabinets and sofas. Knickknacks littered surfaces and the drawer I had the mind to open. My hands trail over the various items and a dress that looks about ready to fall apart if I breathe too hard on it. 

Regulus gets right to work, combing the aisle, while I take a meandering path further into the room. “Accio diadem,” I try, because it just might work this time.

No diadem comes flying at me. 

My eyes search around for any crowns, tiaras, and the like. I still wasn't sure what the difference between a tiara and diadem was. It was probably some technical difference that only a textbook ravenclaw would care about. 

“Marco,” I cry out, after the big hands passed four marks and I was no closer to spotting the diadem. Regulus had long since disappeared among the piles, meanwhile I'd found and stashed a first edition copy of  _ magical menagerie: photographs from distant lands _ . It might be fun to look through when there was time.

I sigh, eyeing a sturdy looking bookshelf, the wood held etchings from long gone students having marked  _ charlus potter was here,  _ the common  _ IP + LB,  _ and the ever popular penises. I could climb it for a better view. 

Grabbing fistfuls of dress, hitching the fabric up my legs, I climb up the selves. They hold as I look around. “Marco?” Belatedly I realize Regulus might be completely unfamiliar with the muggle game. 

There's no diadem that I can spot from my perch. Maybe I had the whole thing wrong. Maybe this was a waste of precious time, a huge gamble to break into hogwarts in the first place. 

I frown, looking around once more. 

“Polo,” Regulus calls back faintly. He's more ahead of me than I'd imagined, too far that I can't make him out from among all the miscellaneous items. There’s a large oak armoire who’s door hangs open, hinges rusted, with stacks of books sitting on top of it, not even reaching halfway up the ceiling. 

I grin, climbing down and racing ahead to where I'd heard his voice coming from, wand in my hand. I hope he’s found it. A glance at my watch tells me it's already been an hour. Would the first champion have finished? 

If it was me, I didn’t like my odds against a dragon. . .well I had done alright with the blind dragon under Gringotts, but then again, I hadn’t been trying to steal a golden egg from the famously territorial creatures. That couldn't be a pleasant experience. I dunno if I would've tossed my name into the goblet given the chance. 

I find Regulus standing in front of a marble bust statue, the nose is chipped by the left nostril and there's a thick coat of dust thicker than the layer of dust at Grimmauld Place when he'd first take me there. A tarnished silver tiara in the shape of a bird sits askew on the head of the statue, the bird's body is composed of an aquamarine blue stone the size of my palm. 

Bird. 

Ravenclaw. 

“It could be an eagle,” I think out loud by way of a greeting. “It's the closest thing to a diadem i've seen here. Plus it looks old.”

“A diadems can be fully circular like a crown,” Regulus explains helpfully, “tiaras can only be half circles.” 

“So you also think that's it,” I note, wondering if it still bestowed wisdom like Hogwarts A history claimed or if the horcrux has destroyed the properties Rowena Ravenclaw had spelled it with. . .or had she used runes on the metal? Questions for another time. 

He nods, before glancing around. 

We had gone too far into the room of lost things to see the entrance- had anyone ever gotten lost in here- but as far as I could tell, we were and continued to be alone. We had taken care on our way up. Everyone must still be down at the stadium watching the champions. 

Regulus knocks the statue off the white side table that's long since yellowed, paint falling off. The marble shatters when it hits the floor with a loud think that resounds through the stone under my shoes. 

The sudden noise causes me to jump. I hadn't seen that coming. I glance around but the walls must be sound proof or maybe the room is just so large that the sound doesn't carry outside, because Flinch doesn't come running to give me detention for the rest of the year. 

Regulus doesn't hesitate, drawing his wand and casting fiendfyre upon the tarnished diadem. The bright orange flames erupt around the remains of the marble and swallow up the diadem with glee. Even standing a meter away I can feel the heat as if I was standing in the center of the fire. 

It's only a second before I find myself taking a step back. 

Regulus steely gaze is centered on the diadem, wand steady as he aims the flames on the potential and probable horcrux. 

Belatedly, I realize I was right. My guess was right. Later. I can brag about it later when we're not sneaking around Hogwarts. 

The blue gem cracks and spills black blood that melts and disfigures the metal band of the diadem. 

Horcrux indeed. 

My throat tightens realizing something like that lives inside Harry. Something awful and evil and twisted enough to bleed but not quite alive. 

With a flick of his wand, Regulus vanishes the flames. “Well you were right after all Jane.” He takes out a piece of fabric that might have once been a tea towel and wraps it around the smoking remains of the diadem, half melted. None of the blue of the gem remains. 

I don't miss the tremor of his hands as he slips the diadem into a pocket in his robes. Fiendfyre was not an easy spell to cast, or control. And we still had to finish the day and check out before we could vanish into the night. 

This was going to be a long day. 

I almost preferred the rush of adrenalin of the past few horcruxes followed by us being able to flop into bed without a thought. 

“Let's get back to the stadium then,” I tell him, taking a deep breath, “with any luck we'll get to see the last champion go.”

“If I ever see another dragon again in my life it'll be too soon,” Regulus mutters under his breath, following after me as I head in the general direction of the door. 

I snort, unable to help myself, glancing back at him with a soft smile. 

The creak of a door opening echoes throughout the room. 

My wand is poised in front of me, ready to cast a shield charm before I can think. Someone else was here. 

“Jane,” Regulus hisses, his own wand already casting protective charms around us, “hide.”

“Like hell am I,” I retort. “It's probably a professor like Mcgonagall.” But I still don't lower my wand. Would we have to stun the older witch to get away? It's not like we could just casually explain our presence here away. 

I doubted I could even hit Professor Mcgonagall with a spell. 

“We don't have time for this,” he snaps, glancing around, his eyes landing on the large oak armoire I’d walked by earlier. “You need to hide,” Regulus repeats himself, grabbing my arm and moving to shove me inside the wardrobe. “You're back up.” 

I frown deeply, making it clear that I am not okay with this hastily thrown together plan of his, “fine.” I step inside, closing the door behind me. 

The door doesn't shut right, letting light stream in. 

I hear Regulus’ footsteps fade away. 

I hold my breath for a second. 

Waiting a moment, two-straining my ears to hear what could possibly be happening outside. 

This was a bad plan. 

I could hold my own in a duel. Sort of. I would never be a great duelist but two against one were better odds I reason with myself, convincing myself that I should go after Regulus. I couldn't just sit by and wait, hoping he didn't get hurt. Besides, I remind myself, we had information that might save us both a trip to Azkaban if we told Professor Dumbledore. 

I should go after him. 

I was going after him. 

A spell flashes outside, but I don't hear any shouts. 

My minds made up. 

I summon a portego charm, before opening the door as soundlessly as possible. Splitting up was how everyone died in horror movies: at least the muggle ones. I wasn't sure what happened on wizarding murder mysteries. Radio shows had been more of a Leandra thing. She had wanted to learn all about wizarding culture coming from a muggle family like me. 

There's no one around. 

I take my shoes off, figuring the heels would make sound sooner or later: the last thing I wanted. They were a little bit loose around my heels anyway. 

An  _ impedimenta  _ forms in my mind, ready to be cast as I walk slowly back towards the door. Every nook and cranny that had seemed so interesting to go through as I walked in takes on a menacing air. Shadows cast by antique robes have me flinching as I turn through the aisles.

The tell tale blast of a bombarda sounds to my right. 

My heart thuds in my chest. “Please be okay,” I whisper to myself, halting at a fork in the road. Left or right? Towards the mystery person, or away?

I couldn't make a run for it without Regulus. 

I go right. Towards the sound of a grizzled voice yelling, “reducto!” A voice I didn't recognize from my time at school. The new defense professor, or perhaps a professor I hadn't taken during my time at Hogwarts 

Still the person was hidden behind a couple more rows of things. 

They're just going around destroying things. Trying to find us. Merlin's beard I should've made a run for it. Regulus probably wasn't even near here.

I slip into a nook behind an ornate stone fireplace, waiting. . .I had to. . .I didn't know what to do. Run? Trust that if I made it to the stadium Regulus would just show up? They knew someone was here. What would Dumbledore do? 

One thing was obvious, as another row of stacked up antiques gets blasted to my right. I couldn't stay here. 

I step out, moving back the way I came. Slipping past the figure of a tall wizard through the smoke laughing wildly, before he throws another hex wildly. 

I'm turning a corner when a deep voice growls, “got you!” And a red stunning spell grazes the side of my face before bouncing off my shield charm. 

Fuck, I’d let the spell weaken. I should’ve held the shield better; it had barely held true against the stunning spell. 

I hear the wizard give chase as I mad dash towards the door. 

I had to lose him. I could lose him in the halls of the castle. Somehow. 

For all the spells the man throws wildly, my heart leaping into my chest, blood pounding in my ears, he's yet to close in on me. It seemed all the days spent biking had worked in my favor, as I outrun the wizard. 

My gaze lands on the door and I cry out, “aberto,” sending the door flinging open. 

I rush to it-freedom, escape all wrapped up in one. 

Regulus. 

He had to have escaped in the chaos. 

“Oh no you don't,” the mystery wizard rounds the corner throwing a curse with deadly precision, “ _ conjunctivitis!”  _

Without a word, I summon the strongest shield charm I can, abandoning the door to duck behind a broken bookshelf leading down another path into the room of lost things. His spell is blocked, but he's already thrown another two curses in the time it took me to duck behind the bookshelf. 

It keeps me moving when the shelf is blasted to pieces. 

I have no choice but to drop my shield and move. Icy cold terror in my veins. This wasn't a professor trying to restore order. This was a proper no bars held duel. “Immobulus,” I yell, flicking my wand behind me wildly. Something was better than nothing. “obscuro!”

Before I reform my shield charm, not daring to stop as I take turns around the winding path trying to somehow move so that the wizard isn't blocking the door from me. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

He wasn't letting up, the step-thunk of his footsteps just behind me. 

“Incendio,” I cry, forming a wall of controlled flames behind me, hopefully that would slow him down for a few seconds. Anytime I could buy was worth it. 

Another sharp turn sends me barreling into Regulus. I don't even hesitate to raise my wand at him before I realize it's just him. The familiar shade of his dark hair, neatly styled out of his face. His sharp silver eyes take me in, out of breath with a wizard hot on my tail. I don't know if I can still hear the stream of spells behind me or if it's branded into my mind. Losing him seems too easy. There's no way I lost him. “We have to-” I sputter out. 

He doesn't hesitate, casting a disillusion spell around us, then taking my hand and running. My fingers intertwine with his as we bolt towards the exit. 

Some of the tension in my throat eases at his presence. I wasn't alone anymore. I had Regulus at my side. 

The entrance is wrecked. 

Objects that had survived the ages laid in pieces if they were lucky. Ashes littered the floor and yet I could still see the beginning of the maze of things sprawling out. 

But the doors still open. 

We were going to make it. 

The wizard steps out from a different path. A magical eye fixing its gaze on us, unblinking, wand held out like a sword ready to slash. The old man's face is littered with nasty scars that seem to shrink as I get my first good look at him. Strawberry red hair splotchy with straw blonde as if he'd had a bad dye job. A wooden peg leg that must have caused the strange thunking footsteps. 

His nose shrinks from a bulbous form on his nose, having lost form a dozen episkeys ago, into a slighter roman nose. 

Polyjuice potion. 

Regulus steps in front of me with an ease that doesn't match the tension in his shoulders that's spread to his clenched fingers around his wand, knuckles white. Still, he manages to keep his face neutral as he grins manically, silver eyes cold. “Barty, I see you're about as dead as I am.”

The wizard in front of us doesn't blink, his eyes shrewdly pinned on Regulus, the fiercer dueler of the two of us, his gaze washing over me. “Regulus? Was that you earlier? With the confundo?” His voice has gone higher, no longer the deep rumbling baritone, but reedy like a customer about to launch into a stream of complaints before asking for their money back. “You've,” he glances around with his mechanical eye even as the potion continues to wear off, the brown eyes going blue, “you've felt the mark then?”

Regulus laughs humorlessly, a hardness only his eyes generally reserved for the dark past he'd long since left behind, “darkening. Yes, my old friend. Let's not let it grow any darker.”

The man straightens up, surprise growing cold on his increasingly fine features, height diminishing along with the potion, “you always were craven.”

“Forgive me if torture and murder wasn't my idea of a past time,” Regulus replies mockingly. 

“They were only muggles and traitors,” Barty spits back, kicking the wooden peg leg off his now fully formed leg. “And it seems you've turned traitor as well-” The man trails off, looking down at the floor, seemingly harmless. But I know he's anything but despite the angelic features he bares, resembling a baby faced muggle boy band member.

There's no warning when he sends a curse flying, “curcio,” a jet of yellow light comes flying at us. I dive out of the way as Regulus moves, retaliating in kind. 

There's a fanatical glee in the other man's eyes despite the precision he aims his hexes with, grazing Regulus, missing by a hair's width. 

I've encountered the usual casual prejudice that other students would toss about because they heard it growing up, but that was nothing in the face of this burning righteousness that Barty possesses. 

I cower down low, keeping out of sight. Clever man. Regulus must have only disillusioned me since Barty knew at least one person was here. And the shock of seeing Regulus alive and well must have kept him from taking conscious notice of me. 

There’s nothing sturdy enough to hide behind anymore. 

And I’m not willing to make sudden movements when there’s curses being flung. 

I have half the mind to join in but I could hardly keep up and I wasn’t about to give Regulus something else to worry about. Maybe he had been right and I just should’ve stayed hidden in an armoire. 

I just needed the right moment to stun Barty. 

They’re evenly matched, trading hexes and curses, sparks flying. Regulus fights defensively, knocking curses aside all while never losing ground. He sends a flipendo jinx that the other wizard has to dive to avoid: closing in on him. He’s trying to keep a level head despite the circumstances. There was no way we were getting back before the first task was up. 

And what exactly was a death eater doing running around Hogwarts disguised in polyjuice. 

So many questions but I could think of nothing but Regulus as I watched them duel, transfixed, anxiety a vice on my chest as I watch him side-step a bat bogey hex as if it was a puddle of rainwater on the sidewalk. 

Barty throws nast hex after nasty hex, never letting up. A powerful diffindo slashes right through Regulus’ shield, but before Barty can close in on the opportunity, Regulus conjures snakes, setting them on the other wizard. Barty blasts the conjured snakes apart, sending them withering with a well placed curcio. 

Both men seem oblivious to my presence. 

With a sharp intake, I aim at the blonde man, “incarcerous!” 

The ropes wrap around Barty, but not quick enough. 

He slashes his way through them, and blocks the next round of hexes that Regulus sends his way before blasting the roof above my friend.

Shit. 

I summon my shield charm as the man pivots, gaze locking with mine. 

Shit. 

“Incendio,” the man shouts, sending uncontrolled whips of flames around me, the heat hitting my skin instantly, even through my shield. But conjured fire had nothing on dragon fire.

I don’t hesitate, “aguamenti,” I shout, running water around me, managing to keep my shield charm steady. 

Closing the distance between us, Regulus sends a flurry of spells at the man, streams of red and white lights igniting the room, as he shakes the dust from the fallen stones of his robes, planting himself firmly next to me. 

Barty laughs, “you can’t even manage two against one!”

“If you wanted me to properly hex you,” Regulus says nastily, “all you had to do was ask!” His hold on his wand shifts as he performs nonverbals, not caring when Barty dodges around the spellight that decimates whatever it lands on, leaving behind scorch marks where long abandoned paintings once stood. 

“Traitor!”

Regulus summons a gust of wind that has me squeezing my eyes shut, “would it kill you to be creative!”

I send the disarming spell, missing widely when Barty flings a coat rack my way. It’s made of ivory and I figure Kreacher might want to, as I dive to the side of the rack. 

My knees hit the ground hard. 

I had never wished to be in jeans more. The cloak and dress, while tame compared to some of the robes knocking around Grimmauld Place, were still a nuisance to run around in, let alone duel in. 

Merlin’s beard, no wonder women had fought so hard to wear jeans. 

Groaning, I get up, raising my shield once more. 

It seemed all those duels with Regulus had paid off. 

Summoning a shield was like second nature to me: already formed before I was completely off the ground. 

“Curcio,” Barty screeches hurtling the unforgivable once more. Only this time it’s not aimed at Regulus. 

My eyes widen as the jet of yellow light flares in front of me, hurting faster than the speed of light. Shields didn’t work against unforgivables. I’d never been big on defense but even I knew that much. My entire body tenses up, waiting for the excruciating pain everyones always raging on about. 

Regulus’ body collides with me as he shoves me to the side, sending me sprawling back. The curse hits him. 

_ The curse hits him.  _

I gasp as he twitches on the floor, Barty’s face lit up with a sadistic glee, continuing to give life to the spell, and turning his back to me.

To his credit, Regulus doesn’t give him the satisfaction of screaming even as his face twitches in agony. 

Nonverbally, I cast.  _ Stupefy.  _

Barty falls over in a slump. 

His wand falls out of his hand. 

Quick, I accio the man’s wand, already running to Regulus’ side. 

He’s still lying on the ground, body spasming. His eyes are screwed tight. 

“Regulus,” I utter, voice strained. I needed to know he was alright. The entire world could go to hell. We could spend the rest of our days in Azkaban so long as he was alright. “Regulus, it’s me Jane,” I whisper gently, my hand hovering over his cheek, before deciding against it. “It’s over. I’ve got his wand,” I add, bringing my hand to rest on his shoulder. “It’s over. You’re okay,” I repeat softly. 

Slowly he opens his eyes, meeting my searching gaze. “Jane?”

A tentative smile forms on my lips, “you-” What could I say, what words could I use to put the plethora of emotions running through me. He’d knocked me out of the way of an unforgivable and scared me half to death. But he was okay and maybe we could still get away with this. 

“Yes,” he says carefully, sitting up, and straightening out his robes with a quick charm. 

“Later,” I decide, my hand moving to grasp his, pulling him up with me. We still had to get away. Someone else could deal with Barty. I just wanted to be back home and have Kreacher serve me those little finger sandwiches that tasted better than a regular sized sandwich. 

He nods, letting me drag him along. 

I tuck Barty’s wand into my pocket, before heading towards the door. 

Finally. 

“What,” a calm Professor Dumbledore says, taking a step into the room of lost things, “exactly has transpired here.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like i butchered the action but practice makes perfect i guess. hope you enjoyed the chapter :) this chapter was originally titled mad eye moody but i felt that gave it away too soon. would love to hear your thoughts !


	29. Part II: a family affair

It’s a reflexive reaction, still very much feeling like a student having been found sneaking around past curfew, I let my wand fall to the floor. 

Before I can even try to string some words together, feeling frozen in place as Professor Dumbledore’s twinkling eyes look pointedly between Regulus and me, with none of the usual start of the school year's amusement he manages to drum up for the sorting hat’s song. There’s a degree of cold calculation that’s like a bucket of ice being poured over me. 

We were royally screwed. 

Not even Regulus seems to have anything to say. 

And we don’t get long to think, before Mr. Crouch elbows his way past Professor Dumbledore, stammering out as he glances around the room like a man that has begun to see mirages in the desert: dreams of oceans where only sand lies. He spots the unconscious Barty Jr, and points with more than a little hysteria at his son. “See! It’s like I told you Albus! You must believe me.”

Professor Dumbledore raises a calming hand at Mr. Crouch, making the old man hush up as if he was a mere student, his stern gaze finally leaving mine. 

It’s as if I can breathe once more. 

“So it seems Bartemius,” Professor Dumbledore agrees, looking over the stunned man. 

Mr. Crouch collapses, eyes full of tears next to his son, but he doesn’t reach for him, looking up at Dumbledore with the desperation of a drowning man. 

“You did good in coming to me when you did,” Professor Dumbledore adds softly, the seemingly dangerous edge he had moments earlier gone. 

No, I think to myself, rooted to the same spot on the floor, my thumb rubbing circles against the back of Regulus’ hand: for his or my own comfort, I couldn’t tell you. If I tried to make a run for it, I wouldn’t make it even a millimeter. 

Mr. Crouch nods, wiping the tears that have fallen down his cheeks away with his hand, standing up once more. He glances around the room again, having finally gained some of his wits once more, looking a lot more like the man he had been this morning at the Three Broomsticks. “What is Sirius Black doing here Albus!”

I can sense Regulus flinch without even seeing him, still caught up with watching the two older men, tension building up in my gut as the seconds ticked by. I half expected a dementor to float into the room next the way they had hovered about the school last year on their manhunt. Surely, it couldn’t get worse. 

“I am looking forward to hearing Mr. Black’s explanation soon enough Bartemius,” Professor Dumbledore, clearly speaking to us all in his even tone, “but I need you to tell me where your son was keeping Alastor.” 

Mr. Crouch looks ready to protest. 

“Now Bartemius.” Dumbledore leaves no room for argument. 

“There’s a box in his room.”

Finally, Dumbledore addresses us both, “Miss Saldana, would you be so kind as to escort Mr. Crouch up to my office while Mr. Black accompanies me to retrieve Alastor Moody?”

Wordlessly, I nod. 

Professor Dumbledore clasps his hands together, “well then,” as Barty’s body is bound in chains, levitating off the ground, “the password is lemon drop.”

With great reluctance, I let go of Regulus’ hand, knowing the way up to the Headmaster’s office since the toad choir practiced a floor below. “Come on Mr. Crouch.” 

The man remains steadfastly out of this world, still processing whatever it was that had ended with his son impersonating Alastor Moody. There had to be a strange story there. It couldn’t be worse than Professor Quirrell being possessed by Voldemort.

I herd the man towards the door, halting halfway out into the corridor, unable to take one last look at Regulus before I leave. Merlin knows what will happen now. 

He still had the remains of the horcrux. 

Mr. Crouch was out of it, I remember, the sad shell of a man I had heard he’d been. 

“Just tell him,” I urge solemnly. We had no other card to play. 

Regulus doesn't meet my gaze, and I-I’m too scared to face Dumbledore. I want space and time to collect my thoughts and curling up in his office while others took the reins seemed the best way to go about things. 

I had reached my quota of excitement for the day. 

I keep an eye on Mr. Crouch as I led the way up to the headmaster’s tower. But the man remains lost in his thoughts, the wrinkles on his forehead as deep as the school’s lake. He seems to have aged decades since this morning. 

My attempts at small talk are ignored. Everything from, “congrats on the tournament,” to “how’s Percy,” are nonstarters. 

Given the situation, it’s understandable. But it leaves me alone to my own thoughts; they’re a black void threatening to consume me, my blood rate spiking every time I wondered what Dumbledore would do and when the ministry would show up to thoss me into prison. Would anyone even tell my parents what had happened to me? 

Or would they be left to wonder where I had gone? 

And Regulus. . .

It was going to be fine. 

Once I explained things to Dumbledore. 

I shouldn’t have left him alone so soon after getting cursed. 

Was he really all right? 

Did he know where he was or what year we were in? 

I bite my lip, wishing I had protested when I had the chance. Regulus had spared me from the effects of the cruciatus curse and I’d left him alone with Dumbledore. Oh lord, I was thinking like him now too. It was Professor Dumbledore. We hadn’t-we were trying to do the right thing. Once he understood the gravity of the situation, he would understand. 

He was the same man who’d given Professor Snape a job despite his own past, and despite the wizarding communities opinions on werewolves, Professor Lupin had found himself here last year. 

Yeah. 

Things would work out. 

“HOW DID YOU GET HARRY’S NAME INTO THE GOBLET OF FIRE,” a feral yet eerily familiar looking man shouts as he stands poised in front of the entrance to the headmaster’s office. Said boy stands behind the man, still in his champion’s uniform, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, having run up countless stairs.

His usual friends, one of the Weasley boys and a brown haired girl, flank him, looking as worried and out of breath as Harry does. Worried, but ready to strike, wands in their hands. 

Bollocks, I’d left my wand behind. 

Blinking rapidly, I-

I look from the man to Harry to his friends, baffled. 

“There’s two of them,” Mr. Crouch utters quietly, having reached the end of his rope. He faints. 

“Mr. Crouch,” I cry out, attempting to catch him before he breaks his head on the stone floor. Less than an hour ago his son was trying to kill me, now here I was, attempting to get him safely into Dumbledore’s office. 

He slumps to the floor, my arms around his chest, keeping him from completely banging his head on the stone, but the dead weight of the man nearly knocks me off my feet. 

I wish I had my wand. 

“What is Mr. Crouch doing here,” the Weasley boy asks, tilting his head as he lowers his wand. 

Today was just not my day. 

And the sun hadn’t even begun to set. 

Things could still get a lot worse. 

I shrug, “I’ve no clue, Professor Dumbledore told me to bring him to his office.” Which was the truth. At least that meant I’ll probably find out why Barty Crouch Jr had been posing as a Professor trying to off me before I was sent to prison. 

No, no. I couldn’t think like that. Things would be cleared up with Professor Dumbledore. 

“A likely story,” the man snarls, his eyes glinting with more than a hint of madness as he holds his wand like a threat. There’s something more than a little familiar about him, I think as I hold Mr. Crouch, my arms falling asleep, more than a little awkwardly. 

It clicks. 

“Sirius,” Harry says, lowering his own wand, “we should wait for Professor Dumbledore.” 

Sirius Black. 

Of course. 

It explains the familiar face. 

No wonder Mr. Crouch had mistaken Regulus for his brother. Though the man standing before me wasn’t the same man in the photographs in Grimmauld Place that strongly resembled his brother. 

Sirius Black has a layer of grime on his worn clothes, on the worrying side of thin as his cheeks were hollowed out: the hand holding his wand was a boney thing. The years spent in Azkaban had erased the boyishly charming smile, and indeed most of his looks. 

His hair was long as it had been in the wanted posters only a year earlier though he’d lost the deranged look to his face. 

Sirius was unmistakably a Black, posture perfect and a way of carrying himself that Tonk’s mother and Regulus both had, but no one would mistake the two brothers for the other now. 

His eyes don’t leave mine, ready to fire a spell. 

Oh Regulus was going to be happy to be reunited with his brother after so many years. 

With great difficulty, I extend a hand, thinking about Regulus’ side project into proving his brother’s innocence, “Jane. I’ve heard a bit about you Sirius.” He’d probably want his room back. 

This is evidently the wrong thing to say, as Sirius visibly finches. “Where! Where is the death eater!”

I drop my hand. “With Professor Dumbledore,” I turn my back on the group. Only Sirius and the girl were still raising their wands. The Weasley boy looked more dumbfounded than anything, exchanging glances with Harry.

I stumble to the door, the eagle carved proudly into the entrance. “Lemondrop,” I utter fearing I’d drop Mr. Crouch any second, my fingers were already slipping from my hold on his robes, too numb to do much. I wanted to sit and have a cuppa tea and curl up and definitely not deal with Professor Dumbledore. I was rapidly reaching the end of my rope. 

Mr. Crouch might have had the right idea with fainting. 

“Well,” I call out behind me, “feel free to wait for Professor Dumbledore with me.”

Mr. Crouch comes too while we all sit awkwardly in Dumbledore’s office. 

The weasley boy paces slowly around the office, before halting in front of a window overlooking the grounds. His wand is held loosely in his hand as he rolls it along his palm, a nervous tick rather than an indication he was ready to fire a spell at the drop of a hat. Unlike Sirius. 

The man’s sour mood was a lot less melancholic than his brother’s dark moods, and much more menacing. 

Which makes me only worry about Regulus more. What was he doing with Dumbledore right this second? Could this be a diversion? Perhaps Dumbledore had already handed Regulus over to the Ministry while I was sitting here uselessly. But that didn’t make sense. 

As each moment without Dumbledore and Regulus entering through the door a knot of anxiety grew in my chest. 

The girl asks the important questions. “How did you get into Hogwarts?”

“I was invited,” I explain, flexing my feet as we wait, “as part of the press.”

“Figures,” the red headed boy. 

“Still not as bad as Skeeter,” the girl replies, clearly talking to her two friends. 

Mr. Crouch sits up, looking around as he holds a hand to his head. 

“Professor Dumbledore said to wait here,” I offer, feeling for the man who was clearly in terrible shape even if his son had tried to kill me earlier. 

Mr. Crouch doesn’t reply: the lost look in his eyes apparent as he nods. 

“You know,” the girl mentions, “we’ve met before.”

“We have?” I don’t remember her at all. And I’m pretty good at remembering people. 

“Mhm,” she nods, sitting on the settee next to Harry, on the edge of the seat taking up as little room as possible, taut with the same anxiety I felt, “in my first year.” She looks at her friends for a second, remembering, “you gave me a pot of orange ink because I looked sad.”

I frown, thinking back but nothing comes to mind. “I’m sorry,” I offer apologetically, “I don’t remember. . .”

“It’s alright,” the girl nods, “it’s been a few years. I’m Hermoine Granger.”

“Jane Saldana.” She’s so young, and Harry is so young and who thought it was a good idea to let him face a dragon! 

I think back on being her age and marooned in Blackpool for the summer, spending days at the beach alone while tourists came and went with their friends and families and wishing I was at school or could at least visit my friends more like the groups of teens my age who would hang out at the my parent’s chip shop. But it was tiring trying to make conversation with them as so many references went right over my head; it felt like my first year in the wizarding world all over again. 

“Are you alright Mr. Crouch,” Harry asks. 

Mr. Crouch had folded into himself, clearly still in shock. I don’t know what would help him at the moment, having never met the man, so I’d prefer to just leave him alone. My potions are back at the Three Broomsticks. 

The man nods. 

None of us are convinced. 

“So who’s the death eater you’re working with,” Sirius sneers accusingly, his mouth twisted as if I was an unpleasant rotting rat he happened to find on his doorstep. 

“I-,” I frown before remembering they don’t know anything. And Regulus had been disguised because we were supposed to slip in and out undetected. So much for that plan. “I’m not working with a death eater. . .” 

His frown deepens, as he leans forward, “I know what I smelled. You weren’t alone in Hogsmeade.”

The grime. . .

The fact that I hadn’t seen him. . .

I would’ve remembered seeing him. . .

“You were that dog,” I cry out suddenly, as it clicks together. “On the way up to the castle. You’re an animagus.” Like Professor McGonogall. Being an animagus sounded fun and dead useful. “Is that why you were able to escape from Azkaban?” 

“I’m asking the questions here,” Sirius snaps. 

“I wasn’t with a death eater,” I repeat, before deciding to go ahead and tell them. Sirius probably needed the extra time to process, “I was with your brother.”

Sirius grimaces, a bad taste in his mouth, “my brother is dead.”

“Am I,” Regulus calls out, entering the room. “I don't recall anyone telling me that.” 

Barty Crouch Jr’s still unconscious body floats in up the stairs behind him. Professor Dumbledore follows in behind, looking troubled, but not angry. I'd be dead scared of an angry Professor Dumbledore. 

“You-” Sirius rises out of his seat, hex flying before I can blink.

With a wave of his hand, Dumbledore vanishes the spell. 

“Alastor-,” Mr Crouch asks, standing up on shaky legs. 

“Madame Pomfrey is seeing to him as we speak,” Dumbledore states. “Now Bartemious, I need you to tell me everything you know.” 

“So we’re just going to ignore the fact that my brother put Harry's name in the goblet of fire!” Sirius is positively raging. 

Dumbledore smiles tightly, “Sirius, there is a lot to go over, if you can't wait for the information to be laid out in front of us then I'm afraid I will have to ask you to leave.” 

Sirius takes a seat once more. 

Regulus looks positively gleeful. 

“What's going on Professor,” Harry asks.

“I’m afraid I'm not entirely sure Harry,” Professor Dumbledore answers while he ties Barty Crouch Jr up in a corner of the room, “But I think Bartemious and Mr. Black will be able to enlighten us promptly.” He sits down on another sette, taking command of the room. “Now Bartemious, I would very much like to know why and how your son was posing as Alastor?”

“Professor mad-eye. . .” the Weasley boy gulps, looking over at the unconscious blonde man. 

“It appears that Mr. Crouch's son has been impersonating Professor Moody since the beginning of the year.” Dumbledore sighs, his years apparent in the motion. “Now, Bartemius?”

Mr. Crouch pales. “Do not think too poorly of me,” he whispers to the ground. 

I meet Regulus’ gaze, trying to gauge what might have transpired and if we were going to try to get away. He's relaxed enough, wand nowhere in sight, but his eyes hold just as much worry as I have. 

I feel as though I can finally catch my breath, now that he's here in front of me--safe. 

“Bartemious.”

Mr. Crouch nods. He finally looks up, his eyes trained on the limp form of his son. 

I wonder the side effect of being stupefied for that long. 

Regulus takes a seat next to me. 

There's barely enough room for the two of us, his leg smushed up against mine. 

For once, I feel self conscious, aware of the delicate and damning situation we were both in, as I smother the urge to embrace the man. I want nothing more than to hug him and make sure he's okay but the very thought seems too private; I couldn't do it in front of these people. 

“My son-,” Mr. Crouch’s voice breaks. “My son was a death eater. He tortured the Aurors Frank and Alice Longbottom and,” his eyes fill with tears, “my wife loved him in spite of his actions.” 

His words ensnare my attention. 

“She couldn't live knowing the hell I had condemned our son to, knowing what he'd done. So they switched places.” His voice is flat, as if something essential had been turned off in the man. “She drank polyjuice potion and took his place. I smuggled him out under an invisibility cloak.” 

Harry stiffens at his words, looking over at Dumbledore, but the wizard says nothing. His expression is unreadable. 

“My wife, she died and was buried as our son. And my son-” He looks up at Dumbledore once more, as if the man could wash away his sins with the wave of a hand, but that was a magic beyond wizarding possibility. His guilty conscience was his own. “I feared my son would rejoin his old master, so I cast the imperius curse on him. He-he would rant and rave about blood purity and he-who-must-not-be-named, I had no choice,” Mr. Crouch pleads. 

“Continue on Bartemius.” 

“We lived like that for years. The whispers of you-know-who faded. And then,” impossibly, Mr.Crouch pales more, taking on a sickly green sheen. “You-know-who arrived at my house and-and my son broke free. My son and Peter Pettigrew as they hatched a plan to restore he-who-must-not-be-named to power. They placed me under the imperius curse and-and imprisoned Alastor Moody when it became known he would be the Defense Professor at Hogwarts, all to get to Harry Potter.” Mr. Crouch doesn't look at the boy, but at his hands. 

There is so much missing and I doubt Mr. Crouch in his current state even knows he's leaving out what must amount to years of information. 

“And how did they-” Dumbledore starts. 

Regulus interrupts, “where's voldemort now?” 

They exchange glances as Sirius laughs humorlessly, “eager to rejoin your old master.” 

His brother ignores him. 

“They put Harry's name in the goblet of fire,” Dumbledore surmises. 

Mr. Crouch nods. 

Professor Dumbledore looks around the room once, before clasping his hands together gravelly, “I think it would be for the best if you went down to the Hospital Wing. Madame Pomfrey will have a calming draught for you.”

Mr. Crouch nods, body on autopilot, before hastily exiting the headmaster’s office without a look back, fleeing from his own personal hell. 

“Harry,” Professor Dumbledore says as kindly as a grandfather can be, something in his stern blue eyes giving way, “Ron, Hermione. I can not vouch for what might come to light-you do not have to be present if you do not wish to.” 

The trio exchange glances--I have a feeling the way out doesn't extend to me. 

“If you don't mind Professor,” Harry answers politely for the group, “I want to stay.” 

Dumbledore nods, taking a vial out of his robes. He makes his way to the stupefied man, tied with chains--Barty Crouch Jr. Uncorking the vial, he pours its contents into the man's mouth, before lifting the hex off the man. 

My stupifey has held well. 

I sort of wanted to pat myself on the back. 

Hexes and curses were not my strong suit. 

The blonde man sits up rapidly, arms struggling against the chains keeping him immobile and stuck to the wall. His eyes are wild as he looks furiously around the room looking as deranged as Sirius’ wanted poster. Barty focuses on Harry, “Harry Potter-” he lunges but the chains hold true. 

“What is your name,” Professor Dumbledore commands, without an ounce of frailty. 

The man's mouth twists in a grimace, before the words force themselves out of his mouth. “Bartemious Crouch. . .Jr.” 

Dumbledore nods, unsurprised. “What was your role in the Quidditch World Cup tragedy this summer?” 

I frown, the incident having skipped my mind in the past few months. 

Barty’s whole face flinches as his body shudders, twitching like an animal being transfigured incorrectly, fighting the potion’s influence. “Vertisum,” he growls: mouth sliding shut

“What was your role in the Quidditch World Cup tragedy?”

“Unfaithful cowards,” Barty says unwittingly, “running around in death eater masks when I alone searched for the DARK LORD I ALONE REMAINED HIS MOST FAITHFUL SERVANT!”

“Voldemort is dead.” Dumbledore states. 

His words send Barty into maniacal laughter, the sound echoing throughout the stone room, before he snarls at Professor Dumbledore, “THE DARK LORD HAS DARK MAGIC YOU CANNOT IMAGINE! HE FREED ME FROM MY FATHER’S PRISON.” He struggles against the chains, willing himself free, but Dumbledore’s magic holds. “When I cast the dark mark, sending those filthy faithless cretin back to the shadows! He knew--my lord knew that I was still loyal, still alive and waiting for his return imprisoned in my own house, forced to wear an invisibility cloak day in and day out-until. . .until that insipid ministry woman came by and guessed. Ah, my father obliviated her,” he looks gleeful, sweat beading on his brow, his cherubic face possessed by something dark and nasty, obscuring anything else he might have been until there was nothing left of the boy he once was: nothing but an attack dog of Voldemort. “But the damage was already done. She ran into my lord in Albania,” the words pour out of his mouth. I wonder how much was the effect of the potion, and how much of it was the psychological damage of being unheard for years. “And from her, he attained my wearabouts. My spineless father was no match for the dark lord, even in his diminished state.” He breathes heavily, panting, glaring daggers at Dumbledore. 

“And where is Voldemort now Bartemius?” Dumbledore probes, a hint of urgency entering his voice, voice gaining strength. 

“With his snake.”

“Where is Voldemort now?”

Blood seeps from the man’s mouth, he smiles, teeth stained with his own blood. “Being cared for by Peter Pettigrew. And protected by his snake.”

“Where. Is. Voldemort.”

Barty Crouch Jr smiles. It reaches his eyes. 

Then he spits out his severed tongue. 

His seemingly sane behaviour made his bone deep loyalty all the more deserving. How strongly must his pureblood beliefs run to bite his own tongue off? Or was the power enough to compel this amount of loyalty on its own?

I had my doubts. 

Dumbledore frowns as if he’s just learned Barty’s cheated on an exam: disappointed but not all that surprised. 

“Barty,” he says with a dollop of pity, withdrawing his wand out of his robes, “vertisum was the easier of the options, but I do need the information.” Professor Dumbledore is the greatest wizard alive; he has proven his ability with wandless magic time and time again as the witches on TV did completely seamlessly. It’s how I know it's for our benefit that he utters out loud, “ _ legilimens.”  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing dumbledore is hard. not sure i nailed siriusor the trio either but i feel much more confident about them then my dumbledore. hope u liked the chapter :)


	30. Part II: dead men tell no tales

Barty’s face twitches, blood falling like drool down his chin. 

I watch as Dumbledore peers into his head.

Once he had been Regulus’ friend. I couldn’t imagine either of them as boys Harry’s age, or what had happened to Barty to end up as he had. The slytherin boys could be mean, but they weren't righteous in their cruelty to those they believed to be below them. 

My gaze goes to Regulus besides me. He plays with the cuff of his robes, silver eyes trained on Professor Dumbledore and Barty, face gone slack. A deep frown graces his well formed mouth. I wonder what, if anything, he had told Dumbledore. He was good at hiding what went on in his head, as I had learned, preferring to pretend he was fine when he was lost in memories long past. 

And then there was the duel with Barty. . .this day couldn’t end soon enough. 

Regulus had to be shaken. 

It was an unforgivable for a reason. 

I rest my hand on my chin, waiting for Dumbledore. It felt both liberating, not being the one to make big choices, and yet at the same time I was going mental waiting for Dumbledore to acknowledge me-to interrogate me just so I could know what was to happen. Surely it wouldn’t be that bad if the Professor had turned out to be a death eater running rampant. 

It had to be true: the part about Voldemort. 

Regulus had explained that he’d linger in the living world in some shape or another as long as there was a horcrux. I was only surprised there was enough left of him to kill a ministry witch. 

Had he made more? 

I think back to the basilisk in my sixth year of school. 

Hadn’t Voldemort freed it then too-or at least Voldemort’s horcrux but wasn’t his horcrux the same thing as him? 

He was a parseltongue. 

The pet snake made sense even if I couldn’t imagine him coo-ing over a snake the way Leandra had taken food up to our dorm for her owl. Poor thing would’ve been too fat to fly if it wasn’t for the constant letters her parents sent, still suspicious of Hogwarts and wanting to make sure their daughter was well at school. It would make more sense if-

I blink. 

Could living things be horcruxes? 

There wasn’t a rule against it from what Regulus had explained of the process. 

My stomach churns at the memory. 

That was one bit of magical knowledge I would’ve preferred not to have known. 

Professor Dumbledore turns his back on Barty Crouch Jr, “it appears as though Voldemort is currently residing at the Crouch townhouse,” he explains as though he wasn’t talking about the darkest wizard in history. I cross my arms over my chest, realizing I never actually imagined I would be anywhere near Voldemort: just sorting through his trash. Far from him and safe. 

What a naive thought. 

Squirming and red faced, Barty shouts an animal like growl, still attempting to stop the forces gathering against Voldemort: the people who refused to let that monster return anywhere near to his previous state. Voldemort who had caused so much pain and suffering could not be allowed to return. 

Professor Dumbledore ignores the man, his cool eyes moving onto Regulus. Regulus who beholds his former friend grimly, and with a great deal of sadness. Unlike the rest of us, he had been friends with the boy before the war. It had to be a wretched thing to watch a friend embrace a dark path with no way of stopping them. 

Barty Crouch Jr had a will of steel. 

A pity he held loathsome beliefs. 

A pity he was so eager to murder for Voldemort. 

“The evidence you promised me Regulus now,” Dumbledore says steadily, “if you please.” 

He blinks, before looking over at Dumbledore. “I offered you no such thing,” which wasn’t exactly what I would have led with, I think, looking over at him in alarm, after all, we had been caught breaking into the castle. “You must have had your suspicions, I have only served to confirm them.”

The older man frowns, the distance in his blue eyes growing. “You’re forgiven if you believe me fool enough to trust the word of a death eater.”

Regulus flinches, but doesn’t correct him. 

In the background, Barty laughs. 

This was insane, but not surprising. 

Regulus wasn’t the type of person to go around freely trusting everyone. 

But what leverage was there but the horcruxes? What guarantee did we have that Dumbledore would let either of us walk away freely one he had what he wanted from us? 

I swallow thickly, my fingers brushing discreetly over the pocket I knew the locket to be hidden in. The buddle still securely in my robes: I had been right to bring it along. Still, the idea had been not to ever need to use it. This wasn’t the plan. 

Why couldn’t have things gone according to plan?

“If I give you proof,” I utter, breaking the tense silence that had risen as between Regulus and the headmaster, more on Regulus’ part since Professor Dumbledore looks as deceptively calm as the surface of the school lake just before the giant squid bursts out and splashes water on unsuspecting students, “will you give me your word that you will do-actively do everything in your power to keep both of us out of,” I pause. Could there be other wizard prisons? I should probably cover everything, just in case. “-out of prison.” 

His watery eyes meet mine as he hums in thought. The way he carries himself is so authoritative without having to toss his weight around like some ministry employee that I feel myself shrinking under his gaze even as I keep my back straight, meeting his searching gaze head on. I had something Dumbledore wanted so it wasn't as if I had no ground to stand on.

Right? 

And it's not as if we were doing anything wrong, if anything we were doing everyone a favor by finishing offing Voldemort. 

Professor Dumbledore peers over his glasses before offering a slight nod, “you have my word Miss Saldana.” 

The knot in my chest eases somewhat as I stand, my hand reaching into my pocket for the cracked locket who's metal had tarnished to a matte grimy black from the evil it had once contained, the fiendfyre had melted the snakes features beyond recognition, a sad end to slytherin’s heirloom. 

His eyes widen, knowing the locket for what it was but Dumbledore makes no comment. 

I fight the urge to look apologetically at Regulus, who hadn't even known I had nicked the locket from his room. It wasn't hard, even if I did feel uncomfortable invading the privacy of his room. I had free roam of Grimmauld Place. 

I drop the locket into Dumbledore’s outstretched palm. 

“I think the snakes one too,” I add hastily, feeling as though his blue eyes could read my thoughts, before sitting down. 

“Voldemort's snake,” Professor Dumbledore clarifies. 

“Mhm.” I play with the fabric of my cloak. “He’s a parseltongue. It just makes sense.”

Voldemort didn't seem the sort to randomly keep a pet. 

The issue of Harry could stay between Regulus and me, or we could get around to it later. Things were still up in the air. 

“Like Harry,” Hermoine cuts in. “You know who's also a parseltongue.” 

“Quiet right Miss Granger,” Dumbledore replies. “A rare trait.” I could almost see the gears turning in his head. “But I think the most pressing concern is to ensure the security of the triwizard tournament,” he glances over at Harry meaningfully. “We cannot know what Bartemius Crouch Jr was able to accomplish.”

“What will you do with him Professor,” Harry asks, fidgeting. 

The older man sighs, “He will be handed over to the authorities. Mr. Crouch said he would step down before he can be dismissed.”

“You can't be serious,” Sirius Black snaps, “you're just going to let  _ him  _ walk away!” 

“Sirius,” Professor Dumbledore says, raising a calming hand. 

“He's a death eater!” 

I glance over at Regulus who tightens his jaw but remains silent, seemingly attempting to appear unbothered. 

“There are forces at play you do not understand Sirius,” Dumbledore snaps, his voice hardening even as the volume remains steady. “For which I need your brother. Death eater or not. And besides, I have given my word.” 

Sirius doesn't look pleased. “If you cared about Harry at all you would've stopped him from competing in the tournament to begin with.” 

“I tried,” Dumbledore sighs, his age highlighted as he runs a finger over his brow. “The binding magic on the goblet of fire is not so easy to undo.”

Harry speaks up, “it's alright professor.” 

“Harry my boy,” Professor Dumbledore says with a small smile and transforming before my eyes into an adoring grandfather. “-and right under my nose,” the old man muses to himself with a shake of his head.

“Well no one's perfect,” Ron Weasley tries with a shrug. 

“I think it's time for the three of you to go back to your dormitory,” Professor Dumbledore adds. 

The three friends exchange glances, before Harry nods. “Okay Professor.” 

The famous boy doesn't hesitate to hug Sirius before he leaves, before he disappears down the stairs after his friends. 

I can still hear Harry Potter’s footsteps on the stone floor when Sirius angrily shouts, “how the bloody hell alive,” at his brother, half lunging as he stands up. 

Regulus opens his mouth to speak but his brother cuts him off. 

“Ran off when you got in too deep like a coward,” he snarls, working himself up into a frenzy. “Hid while better men died!”

Regulus’ pales, his brow furrowing in agitation as he frown deeply, silver eyes glassy but he doesn't defend himself which is idiotic when he's done more to stop voldemort then most wizards could claim. Instead, Regulus tells Dumbledore, “we should go back to The Three Broomsticks to avoid suspicion.”

The man nods, “That would be a wise course of action.” 

“You don't actually trust him!”

“Sirius,” Dumbledore says warningly, “they uncovered and brought down Mr. Crouch. Neither Regulus or Miss Saldana have done anything since to cause me to question their intentions.”

I was dying to know what Regulus and Dumbledore had discussed. 

Sirius pivots to me, remembering I existed, still tucked next to Regulus on the settee. “Snakes are good liars!”

“I'm a badger,” I snap. “Didn't you escape Azkaban?” 

That shuts him up for a second, leaving him gobsmacked, mouth in a wide O of surprise that I'd retorted, clearly used to monopolizing attention and getting his way. 

There's the barest hint of a smile on Professor Dumbledore’s face. 

The legendary man clasps his hands together, “now that I'm aware of your current whereabouts, Sirius, I can arrange accommodations for you at Hog's Head. It’ll be safe, I assure you.” 

With a great big sigh, Sirius nods. 

“We will have much to discuss once the Crouch situation is resolved,” Dumbledore says, addressing me and Regulus. 

Regulus nods still looking particularly translucent, “It certainly seems that way.” First the unforgivable and now this. 

We descend the stairs leaving Sirius and Professor Dumbledore to arrange his stay, Sirius was after all still on the lam, innocent or not. 

“I know it's a silly thing to ask with everything that's happened,” I tell him, as we open the door out of the headmasters office, “but are you-how are you holding up?” 

Regulus sighs tiredly, “I'll be alright.” 

I think back to the image of him that keeps repeating itself in my brain, Regulus under the cruciatus curse, Regulus withering under the cruciatus curse. My face draws grim, my arms wrapping around my chest. For me, because of me-he'd done it for me. 

It wasn't exactly something to thank someone for but it felt wrong to leave that unacknowledged between us and felt too uncomfortable to bring up as a strange weight settles in my chest, like the constricting press in my chest before I cried or the heat in under my eyes and over my nose when I sobbed. Instead, I tell him, “your disguise-”

“Right. That,” Regulus deadpans. 

I smile, as he casts colour changing charms and alters the shape of his nose, “I'm sorry I took the locket.”

Regulus shrugs, leading the way through the castle, the headmasters tower was particularly empty, “that's the least of our worries,” he replies grimly. 

“Still,” I try to lighten the mood, “I was half terrified Kreacher would come in any second. And-and, I'm glad you're alright,” I manage as my voice cracks with emotion, and epically failing to change the subject and lighten the mood. I couldn't help it. Not when it came to Regulus. 

I was starting to understand why my dad had left everything he knew behind for my mum, for the love of his life. 

The night is dark. 

The path down to Hogsmeade is illuminated only by Regulus’ wand. I'd need to get a new wand at some point. 

Regulus smiles at me, an undercurrent of melancholy with deeply sad eyes, “at least you finally learned how to duel. Can't win a duel without going on the offensive.”

I grin, amused by the absurdity of his comment. “I've beat you before.” 

“Or did I let you win?”

“Don’t be a wanker,” I snort, already beginning to feel better. Some sleep would help loads with figuring out where to go from here now that Dumbledore knew what we had been up to and I'm assuming would be helping. . .leading? 

“Though,” Regulus adds thoughtfully, “Did you really win Jane, having dropped your wand?” He reaches into his pocket, producing my alder wand: the colour of sand and crooked in more than one place but all mine. 

“I'm letting it go,” I warn, gratefully taking my wand from his hand, “only because you've got my wand.” 

_ Lumos,  _ I think; I cast. 

My wand produces a soft yellow light as Hogsmeade comes into view. 

The walk back seemed so much shorter. Or maybe it was just that I had even more on my mind and none of the anxiety. I just felt spent from everything that occurred today. 

It probably wasn't even that late. 

It was just on the border of winter and the days were short. The sun almost a myth because of how little time it actually hung in the sky for. 

“Can I hug you?”

“No.”

I'm taken aback. He'd never said no. Had I done something wrong? He wasn't feeling as fine as he seemed then. Regulus hadn't had more than a handful of bad episodes in the previous weeks. I can't help but feel like a kicked puppy even knowing it's not me it still feels very much my fault. 

Regulus sighs, “I just. . .Jane it's not-” 

“It's fine,” I hastily respond. “I get it. You don't have to apologize for needing space. I mean-the curse,” I swallow thickly as I stop in front of The Three Broomsticks. Some of the heat escapes and I can already imagine curling up in bed for the night. I was definitely ordering room service. “I just worry about you,” I admit. 

He looks out at the landscape, houses topped with snow, the greenery stretching far into the mountains, “I know. It's-,” he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “I don't know if there'll ever be a day when I don't think about how it felt-sometimes I go an entire day without remembering how it felt as the inferi clung, how they drowned me, and I hope that maybe one day I'll stop thinking about them at all but I don't think I'll ever forget how the potion burned my throat and the desperation and,” Regulus’ voice chokes off as he takes a deep breath, panic having seeped into his words, the beginnings of an episode. 

“I-You've been doing so much better,” I try, “and even if you can't help but think about it, you haven't let it stop you from helping Mrs. Holmes with Christmas dinner and going out and destroying a couple more horcruxes and making me duel even when we both know I'll never be much of a duelist.” 

Regulus pulls his sleeves over his hands, with a frown. “I-I think I just need a second to myself.” 

Out here? It was frigid. 

I keep the thought to myself, nodding. He was an amazing wizard. He could conjure up a warming charm. 

I nonverbal a warming charm over his robes anyway, wishing he wasn't in disguise. What a stupid thought to think. 

“I'll make you a fresh batch of dreamless potion,” I offer, “and order us more tea and scones and butter than we can eat. Though nothing compares to Mrs. Holmes crumpets. Oh, now I want marmalade too.”

Regulus smiles softly. “I'll hold you to it.”

And it's with a great reluctance, and using all my self control, that I walk inside the Three Broomsticks without looking back at him. 

The rooms full of ministry people liberally drinking fire whiskey and going over the first task (which I missed!) The ties have loosened as they spend the night before heading back down into town. 

Rita Skeeter is furiously typing away on a bright orange typewriter, doing double time, as her quill takes down her notes, glasses hanging on the edge of her nose. 

No one notices as I disappear up to our room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think this'll be the end of part 2 or as i like to call it jane and regulus horcrux hunt and fall in love lmao it took me a second to figure out the direction for this chapter since it sets up certain plot points that should come up really soon (and angst) but im finally content with how it ended up


	31. Part III: what rita skeeter saw

By the time I'm smacked awake by the prophet courtesy of a large brown barn owl it was half past noon. Merlin’s beard! At first I'd been blown away by the practicality of having little owl doors at the top of the wall facing the village, but it turned out to be a nuisance as I rub the spot on my forehead. 

Regulus’ bed was still made. 

He'd never come in during the night.

I jolt up, jostling the empty teapots strewn on my bed. I'd spend the night waiting for him to come back. And he never had. . .what if something happened?

After yesterday, I wasn't about to assume he was alright. 

I stretch, having fallen asleep all bent like a pretzel, my back hurt, and still all dolled up in yesterday's robes. I wanted jeans before I had to freak out. And I had to freak out.

Where could he be!

Where had he spent the night if not here. 

Bloody hell, all the anxiety that had knotted up in my chest returns with a vengeance. All I had done the last two days was worry, but at least then I knew where Regulus was even if things were far from fine. 

Dumbledore had known what the locket was. 

Regulus had claimed that the man had suspected voldemort to have horcruxes. Had he suspected before or had Regulus told him as much when they had been alone together? Either way, he’d protect Regulus now. What my close friend had done in the past few months more than made up for his actions during the war. 

And then he could clear his brothers name and then I suppose I’d have to find a flat since I had taken over Sirius’. Someone would have to explain things to the man first of course, he’d seemed incredibly cross as I might be. I hadn’t lived through the wizarding war, but I was sure which side I’d have fallen on, being muggleborn. My father had never spoken to me explicitly about the junta militar he’d fled from in Argentina, but I knew it had been bad. And prison couldn’t have treated him well. 

Did wizards have psychologists? 

The dementors last year had made my final year at hogwarts incredibly grim before Professor Dumbledore was able to make the ministry of magic keep them off school grounds. Their depressive inducing presence over the years would be enough to mess anyone up. And Sirius had been guilty despite that. 

I shrug off my robes and dig around for a pair of flannel coated jeans and thick wool jumper. I’d need something warm to find Regulus. Maybe I should send off my patronus? Did I need a corporeal patronus to send a message via the charm? I should’ve paid more attention during defense, maybe then I’d remember more jinxes. Leandra claimed it had been worth putting up with Gildoroy Lockhart when she got Professor Lupin the year of N.E.W.Ts. 

A needed a hot shower. 

Then I’d really panic. 

Nope. 

I was panicking now, glancing at the door every five seconds hoping it was Regulus. 

Weren’t we supposed to have checked out by now? 

Fuck. 

Should I write Professor Dumbledore? 

I couldn’t just go running up to the school again could I? 

Did this mean we were allies now? Should I be turning to him. . .no, I shake my head, let down at the lack of the single use soaps available in the Three Broomsticks. I dunno where wizarding hotels kept theirs. Was I supposed to accio them? These were the things Hogwarts had not prepared me for. 

Regulus would hate me involving Dumbledore, but what else could I do?

Could Kreacher help? 

Would the house elf even come at my call? 

I stand under the hot water, trying to calm down. That was the only way I'd get anything done. Regulus had his wand so he wasn’t helpless. Maybe he had gone back to Grimmauld Place without telling me, which seemed unlikely because he would’ve told me, but then again, if he’d had an episode he might have forgotten to tell me. If he wasn’t at Grimmauld Place the I’d involve Kreacher and if he was still missing in the next twenty four hours, well then I’d ring Dumbledore. 

Could I go to Sirius Black? 

He had terrible things to say about his brother. 

I could imagine him slamming the door shut in my face. 

Maybe I should leave the problem for another day. 

It’s not like the man knew me. Or had any reason to trust me. 

Should I try explaining the whole horcruxes to Sirius. . .ugh I couldn’t stop overthinking things. I couldn’t stop worrying. It was Regulus, not some random classmate. I felt absolutely wretched as my mind came up with unlikelier and unlikelier awful explanations from Barty Crouch jr must’ve escaped and hunted him down and left him dead in the forbidden forest to rot to Voldemort himself coming to kill us all somehow. I crack the joints of my fingers before attacking my thick hair with my hairbrush, at least the knots in my hair were something to take my worry out on. 

The shower didn’t help much. 

I’d floo to Grimmauld Place first. 

As soon as I checked out. 

I grab my wand off the nightstand and vanish last night’s collection of tea’s long gone cold. I felt refreshed and a lot more ready to tackle today’s problem as I pull my trusty yellow sweater over my head, made of a chunky knit most likely from some grandmother who had a bit too much time on their hands making sweaters. 

I could do this. 

I had survived dragons. 

Not that the dragon had been very mighty, but like those awful elephants at circuses all mistreated and broken. Was there someone at the ministry I could get in touch with out magical creature mistreatment? 

I take a deep breath, packing with a wave of my hand. 

Time to leave. 

Time to get things done. 

I almost throw up when I see the Prophet’s headline, still laying on my rumpled bed where I’d carelessly tossed it without a second glance. 

_ Black Brothers at Large: What Dumbledore knew _

_ By Rita Skeeter  _

Underneath are two clear, if far away photographs. The left is clearly Dumbledore in all his white beard glory, and Regulus walking through the halls of Hogwarts. The picture on the right is Sirius Black striding up one of the many staircases of the school with the three students from yesterday. 

Shite. 

It’s close enough to be recognizably them. 

And damning good evidence too. 

I try to look on the bright side, not having been caught too, but there’s no consolation. 

Had the ministry arrested him last night? 

Should-how did one go about getting a wizarding barrister? I think miserably on the small amount of galleons saved up in my room back home at Grimmauld Place: not even enough to open an account at Gringotts. 

And I had never written the Quibbler their article last night. 

I could kiss my bludgeoning journalistic career goodbye then. 

It’s with trembling hands that I unfold the paper and read. 

_ Sirius Black’s breakout last year sent wizarding Britain into a panic that had dementors roaming the country for the escaped convict. What was considered an act of a solitary madman has just been revealed to have been a carefully orchestrated escape aided by the long thought to be dead Regulus Black, Sirius’ Black younger brother, was seen in the company of no less than Albus Dumbledore. Everyone remembers the fire Dumbledore came under having let an under aged student (and his rumored favorite) slip his name into the goblet of fire. What was supposed to begin a new age for the triwizard tournament has instead become grounds for Harry Potter to display his impressive abilities, going toe to toe with a hungarian horntail and living to tell the tale at the tender age of 14. Less remembered is Regulus Black who was only 18 at the time of his supposed death when he was rumored to have been killed by death eaters during the war. He seemed to be another young life cut short in the chaos of the first wizarding war which to this day has swallowed countless missing who’s fates may never be known.  _

_ How do Sirius Black, Regulus Black, Harry Potter, and one Albus Dumbledore fit together? That dear readers is just what I have uncovered when I spotted Sirius Black dashing madly into Hogwarts while the crowd awaited the results of the triwizard tournament’s first task with Harry Potter, his girlfriend Hermione Granger, and Ron Weasley. Instead of horrified at the azkaban escapee, Harry Potter eagerly greeted and followed the man through the castle. It would appear that the two knew each other and are quite close. I speculate that Harry Potter is no stranger to the infamous murderer of his own parents and serves as damning evidence in the long standing theory that the infant Harry Potter survived one dark lord only to be an even darker lord. This came as a devastating blow to me as I had been won over by the rising dark lord Harry Potter. He appears charming. But this is only a trick.  _

_ After the fall of their dark lord, the Black brothers have become Potter’s inner circle and it seems even the young boy’s abilities have swayed long neutral Dumbledore, who let us not forget, was close friends with Gellert Grindelwald and waited years before raising a wand against the man even as hundreds died on the continent. Ministry insiders such as Mr. Malfoy and Pius Thicknesse, Head of the department of Magical Law Enforcement, have long held criticisms of Dumblredore’s underminement of the Ministry of Magic and worse, the Minister for Magic. Perhaps the legendary wizard has finally found a wizard worth following.  _

_ Sirius Black had no less than the aid of Dumbledore, Harry Potter, and Regulus Black. This only attests to the abilities young Harry Potter has already developed at such a young age. Sirius’ Black’s escape was of course the first successful breakout in Azkaban’s long history as the wizarding penitentiary. His evasion of justice and aurors can now be explained is the aid of some of the most powerful wizard of our time. _

_ While I am not ready to claim that Harry Potter is for sure a dark wizard, he may be on his way to becoming one if left in the influence of one of you-know-who’s top lieutenant, Sirius Black. I urge the ministry to take matters into their own hands and launch a full scale investigation into these matters.  _

_ We the wizarding community demand answers. Just how far reaching is this conspiracy? I find it difficult to imagine that those in power at the ministry had no notion of Potter and Dubledore’s seeming alliance.  _

_ We cannot allow another would-be you-know-who to rise after the last wizarding war devastated a generation whose effect we continue to feel. Entire families were wiped out.  _

_ As a journalist I have always considered myself, Rita Skeeter, a humble public servant, and can only hope to help the great nation of Great Britain with my gift of investigation. This plot that a simple reporter stumbled upon might just be the biggest story of the century, and change the course of history.  _

_ What was supposed to be a thrilling coverage of the first task of the newly reinstated triwizard tournament ended on a dark note.  _

I laugh in disbelief at the complete horseshit of the article. No wonder so many people loved reading Rita Skeeter’s pieces, they were all drama when the reality was usually drab. They were willing to ignore blatant lies and embellishments for the thrill of her prose. 

At least I had somehow gone unscath. 

Somehow. 

We were really in it now. 

I scramble to search for the morning prophet, figuring the owl must’ve dropped it off as well. And sure enough, it lies on the floor between the two beds. The same story. Unedited. 

Had anyone thought to fact check this piece or was the idea of selling such a story to appealing. The idea Harry Potter, the quiet gryffindor boy I’d caught glances of around the castle was some up and coming evil wizard was laughable. But so was the idea that he was this pig headed egomaniac that he came off as in the papers. 

I couldn’t blame people for buying into the idea when they had no other information to go by. 

I take a deep breath and accio a quill and parchment. 

I could give them another point of view. 

It’s rough, but I pen down the article I should’ve sent last night to the Quibbler, summarizing all four champions as admirable while playing down Harry as just a scared fourteen year old making the best of an awful mistake. My money was of course on Cedric as a Hogwarts graduate; it was bias. Cedric Diggory was a friendly sort of boy a year below me, good at quidditch and he had the one thing it took many years for most people to master--time management. How else did he get good marks and have such a robust social life with students of different houses. 

Then I tuck along with a quick rebuttal to the fact that Sirius Black had never had a trial and a note  _ Ask about Mr. Crouch and his son,  _ hoping that whoever read my letter at the quibbler would do something. 

I tuck the note onto the owl’s leg who’s been patiently waiting for me to pay for the two editions of the prophet when there’s a knock on the door. 

Why would Regulus knock? 

He wouldn’t. 

Something had happened. 

It wasn’t the ministry. It would’ve been in the afternoon edition if Sirius or Regulus had been taken into custody. 

“Miss Saldana,” a voice in the hall belows out, “please open up the door and come out with your hands where we can see them.”

But the ministry had found me. 

I shoo the owl off. 

“Miss Saldana-”

“Okay,” I cry out, turning the knob. 

The door cracks open and I’m hit with a stunning spell, collapsing like a twig falling of a tree in the rain. 

Aurors filed into the room. 

I can’t even speak. 

The force of the spell had knocked the window out of my lungs. 

It was okay, I told myself. 

Regulus would do something. 

He would. 

I trusted him. 

Then there was Dumbledore. And hopefully the quibbler if they believed in me at all which might not pan out because of Skeeter’s article but it might work out. All they needed to do was fact check and then they would see. 

Surely the quibbler would-

Oh who was I kidding. They weren’t going to if the mighty Prophet didn’t. I should’ve sent an owl to Tonks or Penelope. 

“Miss Saldana, you are going to be taken into Ministry custody until the matter of Sirius Black and Barty Crouch Jr is thoroughly investigated.”

I can do nothing but blink up at the ceiling. 

Two of the aurors grab me roughly by the arms, before we’re disappearing in a rush, my stomach churning with the swiftness of the world swirling and reappearing in the dim corridors of the ministry. 

The aurors jerk me along before opening a black stone door and shoving me hastily inside after accio-ing my wand and taking it along with my bag. 

I had just gotten my wand back too. 

I lay on the floor for a second, my cheek on the stone floor, before I realize the stunning spell had worn off. I blink, before standing up, confused and disoriented and trying to figure out where I’d gone wrong. Regulus had explained the dangers we would be undertaking, but I didn’t take the threat of discovery seriously. 

The ministry was so far and Regulus was there and I felt insulated from the dangers of the world when I was with him. 

Things could get really bad, but with him by my side the situation never seemed as hopeless only he wasn’t by my side at all was he. 

“Hello,” I bang on the stone door. Only an etching of where the door had been was visible. A runed room then. It must’ve sapped my magical abilities. Or just magic in general which would explain why the stunning spell had worn off so quickly. 

It’s cold and there’s not even a bench to sit on. 

“Can I let my family know where I’ve gone,” I cry out where I know the door to be. 

No one answers. 

I sigh, resigning myself to waiting. 

Dumbledroe had given me his word. 

Regulus was more than likely free and if I knew anything I knew that he would fix things. . .somehow. 

Taking a seat on the cold stone floor I tuck my knees against my chest and begin to wait.If crime shows had taught me anything it was that waiting was the hardest part. So I close my eyes and think on my nice calm memories: all the hours spent walking the beach of Blackpool and roasting under the sun, getting to eat as many chips as I pleased when helping out me mum and dad, drinking tea with Regulus and laughing at how many sugar cubes he went through, and paris with my friends and all the nights I spent awake talking with my roommates Leandra and Michelle instead of sleeping. 

Eventually I tire of that and stare at the black stone. 

I was incredibly thankful for my jumper. 

It wasn't exactly a cold room, but it wasn’t warm. 

It was a black void. 

I watch as hours pass and I sit there waiting. The white watch on my wrist the only way for me to tell that its been five hours and not a soul’s come here. 

What if they forget all about me? 

I wasn’t infamous like Sirius. I wasn’t famous like Professor Dumbledore-

Professor Dumbledore! 

Had he been apprehended as well? 

Was he on the lam? 

Surely not him. 

Prime Minister Fudge couldn’t just arrest such a man on baseless rumors and hearsay. He was the prime minister, not a journalist with not a shred of integrity. And it wasn’t like Prime Minister Fudge was some ruthless hag like Thatcher milk snatcher. 

Things would work out. 

Five hours was not a long time. 

Still, this was the same ministry that hadn’t given Sirius Black a trial. 

Maybe I was good and properly fucked. And my parents would never know what happened to me. And then them being muggles no one would explain anything to them or take them seriously. They didn't even know where I was staying. Or where to find me. My poor parents didn't know any wizards apart from me. 

And now- 

“Oi,” Sirius Black tells as he's shoved unceremoniously through the door. “I've come willingly haven't I? Bunch of arseholes! Didn't even know about Crouch,” he spews back even as the door is shut without so much as a second glance. “Bunch of useless wankers,” he tells savagely kicking the stone aggressively with the sort of rage he clearly had built up in his years in Azkaban. 

I watch passively on the floor. 

This would at least break the monotony if nothing else. 

My stomach grumbled. 

Sirius turns. “Oh,” he says spitefully, “it's you.”

I roll my eyes. Then I lay my head back down against the tops of my thighs, curled up in myself. 

I must really look an awful mess because he then asks, sitting down on an adjacent wall, “how did they get you?”

Sirius frowns. “Turned myself in actually. Figured it was high time to clear things up so Harry can stop living with those awful relatives of his.” He looks at the door, “They don't even feed him!”

Alarmed, I sit up. “They don't feed him?”

The man plows on, “Who exactly even are you?”

Humoring him, I reply, “Jane Saldana. A friend of your brothers.”

“I gathered,” Sirius replies archly, the only thing he seems capable of doing. It should be unsurprising coming from a man who had posters of Mick Jagger in his prime and The Runaways plastered over his bedroom wall. 

“How exactly does this all work?” I wave a hand around the room. 

Sirius’ dark eyes widen a fraction as he stares at me, understanding blooming in the gunmetal depths. “You're muggleborn.”

“Is it that obvious,” I say, feeling the familiar sort of embarrassment from school rise to my face. “How is it that obvious?” All the snooty pureblood had always been able to tell, somehow. 

It's not that I felt bad.

I just thought that after all these years of being a part of the wizarding world, people would stop caring that I'd grown up muggle or it at least wouldn't be obvious. It made me realize how annoying my dad must find his persistent accent despite having spent more than half his life in England. 

I never complained again about helping my dad order take out when I was younger. 

“Obvious enough,” he shrugs. “How long have you been here.”

Looking down at my watch I answer, “just about six hours.”

“Is that me grandmothers watch?”

“Yeah.” 

“And my brother just gave it to you.”

“That's right.” He was being incredibly thick.

“And you're friends?”

I roll my eyes.

Like a teenage boy, he sniggers. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sirius' day has gone terrible and he's decided to go with it for now.


	32. Part III: morgana's rights

“They can’t hold us here forever,” I utter, watching Sirius pace the perimeter of the room: of the cell. “Can they?” I had no idea what your rights when arrested were at the ministry of magic. Now that would have been useful to learn in school. 

I wasn’t sure what time I’d been dragged in at, but it was nearing eleven at night now. 

Sirius’ chuckles humorlessly, really selling the whole demented azkaban escapee bit, “if they’re feeling particularly idiotic, we won’t even have a trial.”

“That’s not right,” I frown, remembering he hadn’t got a trial. Cutting corners in a justice system would lead nowhere good. “Don’t they have to let us at least call-owl someone?”

The older man comes to a halt, glancing over at me like it was the first time he’d really thought about me at all. “You’re muggleborn.” It wasn’t a question. 

I cross my arms over my chest, “yeah.” It was like my first few years of school every time I was left floundering over something wizards thought was obvious but wasn’t to my muggleborn self. It was hard not to feel a tad dumb about it even thought it was hardly my fault; I was left to play catchup in wizarding Britain. 

Surprise is clear in his gunmetal eyes. “Well,” he shrugs, finally looking away and continuing in his pacing, “the ministry can get a bit carried away.” 

I roll my eyes. It had been almost a full day since I’d last ate. I was cold. I didn’t know where Regulus was. My parents didn’t know where I was. Bloody hell, this was a mess. 

I really could end up in Azkaban. 

I rest my head in my hands and try to focus on evening out my breaths. It was too early to freak out. . .or maybe this was the exact moment I should be freaking out and yelling my throat hoarse. 

Sirius grows tired of pacing and sprawls out on the ground, taking up most of the cell. He’s tall and sinewy, and he looks entirely too unbothered, as if he was lounging on a settee at home instead of being held in the ministry. 

“I don’t suppose you owled Professor Dumbledore?” I wanted the reassurance someone knew I was here. That someone might come and explain this was all a misunderstanding. 

“What for,” Sirius states. “I'm sure Fudge wants nothing more than to bring Dumbledore in as well. Always felt threatened by Dumbledore. Politicians.” He spits. “Can't understand not everyone wants to be top dog.” 

“Nice to know politicians are all the same, muggle MPs and wizarding. . . bureaucrats. Do wizards have elections?” That was something I should probably have asked earlier. Penelope was sure to know the answer. 

“Muggleborns,” he shakes his head, “never know anything.”

“Bugger off.” I could always just ask Penelope if I ever saw her again. 

Sirius snorts, raising his head up off the floor, “the minister is elected. Every seven years. Except if a minister steps down which is common enough. He appoints the department heads.” He looks up in thought, “there's guild members and other interested parties that spend their time rubbing elbows.” 

“Like lobbyists,” I think aloud. 

“Brown nosers,” the older man scoffs. 

“That's one way of putting it.” I lay down on my bit of floor, figuring I might as well try and sleep for a bit.

I must have dozed off. 

I'm groggy when the door cracks open, light flooding the cell. Sirius fares better, looking alert if entirely over the whole situation. In the sudden light, the shadows ever present on his features lengthen, the pits under his eyes looking especially dark. Even all banged up, he manages to look handsome in a sort of gothic tragic love interest that lives a cursed existence locked away in a deserted manor, right out of a Bronte novel. 

There's a dozen wands pointed at us and a mousy haired blonde witch with a clipboard. “Jane Salad-Saldana.”

“That would be me,” I acknowledge. 

“Your solicitors here to see you,” she looks past me dismissively, staring at Sirius with disgust. “Not that'll do you any good with the company you keep.” 

My...I was floundering. “I have a solicitor?”

The witch looks at me skeptically, “step out or stay there and rot for all I care.” 

I step out slowly. Hands out where the hit wizards can, they conjure chains around my hands, before letting me out. 

The door slides closed behind me.

Was the Dumbledore’s doing? Or Regulus’? 

Is this some sort of elaborate breakout?

I couldn't help the tension in my limbs. Or the hunger gnawing at my stomach that chose this very second to rear it's big ugly head. 

They take me to another room, this one with chairs and a desk, better lit then a cell. “Your solicitor’s been a pain in my arse. Been sending howlers all afternoon trying to locate you. Showed up right before we closed up for the night.” 

Still confused and disoriented, I take a seat, trying to figure out my next move, when a bludger comes flying at me. Penelope engulfs me in a hug, “Jane,” she cries squeezing me half to death. 

“Penelope,” I wonder, as she hugs me tight. An older man with a close crop of black hair, and the same slope of a nose follow quickly behind. His mouth is straight, all business as he starts in on the short blonde witch, hair streaked with white, and a permanent frown on her lips. 

“The charges, now that you've decided to let me see my client.” He pushes his glasses up his nose bridge.

Penelope's brother. Who else could it be.

The older ministry witch opens a file, “Jane Saladana, you've been charged with treason against the ministry of magic, aiding and abetting an escaped convict, conspiring with a suspected dark wizard, and harboring the fugitive sirius black.” 

This was too much. I was tired and hungry and this was ridiculous. I hadn't even met Sirius Black until a day ago. Was it two days ago now? My sense of time was so skewed. “It's Jane Saldana.”

The witch shoots me a withering look. 

“Right then, leave the charges so that I have time to consult with my client.” Penelope's brother gestures, setting down his briefcase on the table. 

“Very well.” She leaves followed by the hit wizards. The door locks. 

Penelope still hasn't let me go. “This is my brother. Francis.” 

“Nice to meet you,” I say, aware of the circumstances. But Penelope had still come. 

“You're in a mess,” he says blandly. 

“Your face was on the. . .,” Penelope starts, taking a seat next to me, “well not the first page. That was all Sirius Black. Fudge is saying they finally got him.” 

“They didn't though,” I frown, “he turned himself in.” 

“And you have proof of this,” Francis asks, quill in hand. 

“Well, no. . .”

“I brought food,” Penelope says, fishing her robe pocket for said food. “Michelle wanted to come but they barely let me in with some excuse about me assisting my brother for work. She's up in the atrium. No doubt driving the employees mad.”

“Brilliant,” I smile, incredibly thankful for the friends in my life. “I haven't had anything to eat all day.”

“This is hardly the time to snack,” Francis points out. The wizengamot is going to be convened. Harry Potter’s been brought in for questioning.``

“He has,” I frown as I crack open the package of biscuits. This was news to me. 

“What exactly,” Penelope says, dancing around the subject and looking deeply uncomfortable as she averts her eyes, staring holes into the table.

“I need you to be honest with me if we're going to get anywhere,” Francis states. 

I slump into my seat. He was clearly waiting for some terrible confessions and even Penelope couldn't look at me. No wonder Leandra had raised the alarm. It looked bad, from an outside standpoint. 

“Well-,” I say, trying to figure out how to start. Months ago when this whole horcrux business had started, or maybe further back to meeting Regulus except that was something that felt too private to go about saying though it was explain or azkaban. It was out of my hands at this point. 

A cacophony of noise sounds out in the hall, voices too muffled by the door to make out. 

My hand twitches for a wand that I don't have: that's been confiscated. 

The door opens to the billowing stone blue robes of Albus Dumbledore, looking imposing as Fudge follows after him, stepping inside our room, “-they'll have to be a proper investigation Albus of course. The public, they need to feel safe. Not that I don't believe you but it's out of my hands now,” the portly man sputters. 

Professor Dumbledore’s gaze catches mine, every bit a man on a mission, “Miss Saldana.” 

“Hello Professor,” I reply, looking over his shoulder where an incredibly mollified Regulus stood, a green tint to his already naturally pale complexion. 

Penelope leans forward, her hand squeezing my hand. 

At some point, I was going to tell her everything. 

“I trust you've been treated well?” He was amused by the whole situation: a barely there smile on his mouth as the room gravitates around him. 

The Minister for Magic, Fudge looking very much like he'd been worked up in suit robes, shirt wrinkled, and slippers, was affronted, red rising to his cheeks, “Albus! Of course the department of magical enforcement has been doing everything to the letter of the law.”

It would've been helpful to know what the letter of the law was. 

Francis stands up, “I think the best thing in this case would be to join our counsel.”

“What a splendid idea Mr. Clearwater. It's wonderful to see former students again.” Professor Dumbledore says with a genuine smile as if we weren't all squeezed into a tiny room. Regulus keeps to himself, and I can tell by the way he pulls the sleeves of his robes over his hands that it's taking most of his energy to stay calm. 

Whatever fear I’d been clutching in my chest, not knowing where he'd gone, evaporates. He didn't look well, but he was whole; he was here. 

I just wanted to know where he'd gone. Had Dumbledore found him? Or had they run off together to sort things out then Rita had thrown it all to bloody hell. 

We needed to talk. 

And it seemed the opportunity wouldn't come soon, as the bodies start moving, everyone filing out the door, and Regulus looks up, his remote gaze finding mine, finding his footing and remembering we were all the the Ministry. I'd only gotten about a naps worth of sleep. The tension in his features soften: it makes him look less unapproachable and remote. 

Then Penelope is dragging me along with her, after Professor Dumbledore and the crowd trudging along with him, including minister Fudge. 

“-I'll have them draw up the paperwork Albus,” Fudge continues in some important conversation I should be listening to because this all concerned me but I was too caught up in my head and Penelope's hold on my arm anchoring me to the present. 

She glances at me, her dark hair falling into her face, “you okay?”

I nod. “Thank you.”  _ Thank you. Promise I'll tell you everything.  _

She squeezes my arm again.

“How will I-I can't give you Black. We've been searching for him for ages,” Fudge explains as we arrive at a much nicer room. 

Harry Potter was sitting on a chair with a red haired older woman soothing him. She had her arm around his shoulders and kept shooting the aurors at the entrance dirty looks. The woman was a spot of bright colors, cozy like a well worn sweater in a mustard colored dress and red and green striped cardigan that was practically a second dress. 

“I assure you Cornelious, Sirius Black will stand trial. This time,” Dumbledore says meaning fully. 

“Yes, yes, I understand but he's slipped through our fingers enough times and Rita, bless her you know always doing her part to keep us citizens informed, even if she gets things wrong at times, she's already publicized that we've got him!”

“That you've apprehended an innocent man,” Regulus finally says archly, reminding the room he was in fact present. 

Fudge startles, having forgotten all about the younger Black brother, who's taken a stance in the outskirts of the mass of people milling about. I wasn't sure what they were all here for. The hit witches were an obvious reason, but some of them were just standing around for no reason. 

“Yes well,” the Minister says nervously, “that remains to be seen.”

“So we should follow pre-trial protocol then,” Francis cuts in, blinking owlishly and all solicitors were snakes weren't they. 

“I suppose,” Fudge glances behind him at a few posh looking older wizards. 

“Then let's set terms,” Francis says, accio-ing parchment and quill. “House arrest with an auror watch sounds suitable.”

“Black doesn't have an eh, house,” a random ministry witch points out. 

Fudge runs with it. “Yes. Unfortunate.”

“The Black family residence,” Regulus drawls out pointedly.

Francis pushes his glasses up his nose bridge, more of a force of habit than because they were falling off, “that would work. And of course all the allegations should be dropped: treason, conspiracy. Would hate to have to counter sue for trumped up charges.” 

“Yes,” Fudge says awkwardly, “I think we could manage that. Mr. Rigby, draw up Black’s paperwork as well.” He looks back at Regulus, realizing that he had more than one person to deal with. “Um, well, I think a closed trial would be best given the circumstances. And can be managed once we get proper depositions once we've all rested.” He claps his hands with a smile, “yes, but for now we should all get some rest after the commotion of the day. Still got the whole Crouch situation to sort out.” 

Then he shuffles out of the room with his entourage leaving behind the odd assortment of Harry looking as confused as I feel, the ginger-haired woman, Dumbledore, the Clearwaters, Regulus, and me. 

Professor Dumbledore takes a seat next to Harry. 

“What's this about Sirius Black being innocent Dumbledore,” the woman says, voice reedy as though she was holding back on shrill.

“He is,” Harry says brightening, turning to Dumbledore, “will Sirius be let out?” 

“It appears that way Harry. We can wait here for him before we go back to Hogwarts.” He explains calmly. 

“Dumbledore,” the woman asks meaningfully.

“Harry's right Molly. Sirius Black has and continues to be a good man.”

Molly purses her lips thoughtfully, but doesn't protest again-about Sirius. “Should Harry really go back to school with all this going on? This year’s been hard enough on him.”

“The Prophet should be issuing a statement recanting their previous article soon,” Dumbledore explains, “and if they don't I will be disappointed with the state of magical journalism.”

“Not even the BBC is unimpeachable,” Regulus points out, looking especially stiff as he stands. 

Harry grins. 

“Oh I know what the BBC is,” Penelope utters quietly so only I can hear. 

I muffle a laugh. “So what exactly is going to happen now?” I would like to know what's going to happen to me. 

“Mr. Crouch has informed the Ministry of his actions. I believe this will make Sirius Black’s trial easier. After discussing certain key aspects, Cornelious agrees with me that Regulus’ trial should be closed. I do think as a person of interest you should remain in London Miss Saldana. But Cornelious is right that we should go to bed. I find I always have my best ideas after a good nights rest.” i.e. we would talk about Riddle later. 

I nod. 

“Then we can go over statements in the morning,” Francis jots down, his notebook closing its a clack. “What's the address?”

Regulus states blandly, “12 Grimmauld Place.”

“No,” Sirius says blithely, nose in the air like a petulant teen, “absolutely not. I can stay in the Ministry.”

His brother sighs. 

I can't help the twitch of my lips, amused by the two brothers. 

Regulus notes the amusement in my features, shrugging slightly as the rest of the room turns attention to the infamous Sirius Black. I smile fondly at Regulus wishing that we were home sipping on tea instead of here. Then I could corner him about his whereabouts. 

“Sirius-,” Harry runs up to the man, engulfing him in a hug. 

“I have so many questions,” Penelope utters. 

“It is a temporary measure while a pardon is issued,” Dumbledore says longsufferingly, the tips of his fingers resting at his temple. 

Arm around Harry's shoulders, Sirius sticks his hand in the air, pointing dramatically, “I swore I’d never go back there and I sure am not sleeping under the same roof as him.” He swivels on Regulus who looks out on as attention lands on him. 

“Thanks,” he snarks dryly in response, “though I think a childhood home is a better alternative to the Ministry it's your choice.”

“Of course it bloody is,” Sirius snarls for the sake of being argumentative, probably worked up from having spent a day in a cell. I could sympathize. And also see the shared similarities with Walburga Black. 

Regulus rolls his eyes. 

“It can't be that bad,” Harry tries.

The change is immediate. In Sirius’ eyes, Harry hung the moon. The man relents with a full body shudder. Merlin this family was dramatic. “If it'll help with the case,” Sirius sets his intense gaze on Francis who nods. 

“Then we are all settled,” Professor Dumbledore says, standing up and steam rolling over any doubts. “Let's get you back to Hogwarts Harry.” 

Reluctantly, the boy pulls away from Sirius. His gaze goes back and forth from Dumbledore to Sirius. 

“Well, no need to be so grim right now Albus,” Molly's says, shooing our group toward the lift, “we’re not floo-ing til we reach the atrium.”

“I'll need the files,” Francis Clearwater states, pivoting back down the corridor. “See you at home Penelope.” 

The lit door shuts. 

“How'd you manage to get him here,” I ask Penelope, having only heard of his work ethic from her. 

Penelope shrugs, “well Michelle saw the Prophet first and had a freak out and then. . .well I mean having a solicitor in the family helps and when I mentioned it might be an interesting case he was all ears. Most of his work is hashing out apparition violations. Boring stuff like that.” 

The tip of my nose burns, emotion running high, “well thanks, again.”

“You're my friend,” Penelope says, looking down at her shoes. 

The lift door opens. 

Harry hugs Sirius again, as if the man might apparate away. 

Then Michelle yells out, “Oi, over here Penelope,” she cries even as she rushes forward, ducking around the guard and pulling me into a hug. “You look like shit.”

Sirius snorts. 

“Thanks,” I smile.

“Where's your nerd brother,” Michelle asks Penelope.

“I'll tell you later,” Penelope says, dragging Michelle off me.

Michelle looks out group over, eyes narrowing as anger bursts from her, “Black, you wanker,” she cries even as Penelope pulls her into a fireplace. “You hurt my friend I'll break your face!” Which was threatening coming from a tall witch built like a beater: would've been a beater if she could stay on a broom. 

Then they're gone in a flash of green. 

“Is that Percy’s ex girlfriend?” Harry asks.

“Yeah,” I answer, as Molly disappears into a fireplace. “See you around I guess.” Because I didn't really know the kid. 

He nods, then let's Dumbledore usher him into a fireplace back to Hogwarts. 

“You have great friends,” Regulus muses. 

“Yeah,” I nod, smiling a bit deliriously. It was three in the morning, I was allowed to be a bit looney. “I do.” 

Then I frown. “Where did you go?”

“There were some things, it's better if we talk at home.”

“Yes,” I state, “I have a lot of questions.”

“So do I,” Sirius cuts in, amused, “firstly, I'm starving. Let's get to it.”

They both reach for the floo powder. 

Regulus takes a step back as Sirius grabs the powder and steps into the fireplace. I follow them both in, stepping between the two brothers. 

“12 Grimmauld Place,” Sirius says like a wizard about to face off with a dragon. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> regulus this entire chapter: would rather be anywhere else then at the ministry  
> also people continue to think jane knows sirius which i find really funny bc they just met. idk how fudge come off but hopefully it was in character?   
> merry christmas to anyone who celebrates it.


	33. Part III: making room

Kreacher bursts into tears when he sees us step out of the fireplace. “You are alright,” he could not more clearly be saying to Regulus, before half running after the man as he heads to the windows. 

I dust off my robes, feeling incredibly overdressed and gross from having spent the last two days in the same robes and wondering what Regulus was up to now. Sirius follows me out, muttering, “didn’t think I’d ever come back.”

“Kreacher can have tea ready at once,” the elf says happily as Regulus peaks through the curtains out the window. 

“Can you,” I wonder, having learned that quick and snack didn’t exist in Kreacher’s vernacular. Every meal called for a full table setup. Personally, he just seemed glad to have something to do again. 

“Of course,” he beams, having missed the rhetorical tone in my words, and scurries off. 

“The aurors are already set up outside,” Regulus notes, taking off his cloak. His gaze keeps wandering to his brother: never for long. “I suspect our floo network’s been restricted as well.” 

Similarly, Sirius looks around Grimmauld Place. It looks tons better than when we first got here, but it’s still shabby in a victorian haunted manor way. Wasn’t there a Disney in Paris that had just opened up? Hopefully I will get the chance to go when this is all over. 

I have no idea what he must be feeling, seeing this place after so long. Whatever happened that led him to leave, and there were plenty of reasons if Walburga’s portrait was anything to go by, it must be rough seeing your childhood home in such a state. 

“Things could be worse,” I note, untying my boots. “And honestly I don’t think I’m up for much of anything at the moment.” Food had fallen behind sleep in my priorities. Later, I would deal with everything later. 

“I’ll just go up to my room then,” Sirius says, shifting his weight back and forth between his feet, as if simply being here had sapped him of his confidence. 

I smile tightly, remembering just how much I had taken over his bedroom and folded his things away, and taken the liberty of using some of his things as well. “Actually,” I admit, playing with the ends of my hair, “I’ve sort of taken your room over.” Maybe I could run a bath before bed. 

Sirius raises a brow, then smirks, looking over at his brother, “Seperate bedrooms, how antiquated.”

Regulus straightens up as if transfigured upright, flushing red. 

I tilt my head, wondering what this was about. 

“You can take-,” Regulus trails off, not actually having any solution.

“You can take my room,” I tell Sirius. “It was yours to begin with.” There were plenty of rooms to choose from, some less dusty than others. 

“Are you sure,” Sirius asks. 

“Yeah, it’s fine, just don’t mess around with my canvases. You want Kreacher to bring you up anything?”

The man laughs, head thrown back wildly. “I’d rather not risk it.”

I shrug. I would figure out all the drama from years past when I wasn't dead on my feet. 

Sirius goes up the stairs, skipping over the creaky step. He looks back down, at the entryway, taking in what once was his home, before looking at us. I can feel Regulus hovering behind me. Then, he turns up to the next flight of stairs: out of sight. 

Regulus places his hand on the small of my back. 

The unexpected touch sends me spinning: stepping right into his arms. “I’m glad you’re okay Jane,” he says, holding me tightly. 

I wrap my arms around his back, glad to have him here, glad he’s alright and immediately feeling better. I realize I’ve been feeling completely knackered but just haven’t let myself think about it. I’d been worried and it wasn’t until I was hugging him that I let myself relax. Somehow, with Regulus by my side, things would turn out alright. 

“Me,” I utter into the soft fabric of his dress shirt, “What about you! I thought you’d wandered off into the snow and I’d find you like some frozen climber on Everest.” 

He chuckles, looking the most relaxed I’d seen him all night. What night though, the morning light streams through the windows, casting the room in washed out colour. 

“Where were you,” I ask, looking up at him, “I was worried sick. I stayed up all night waiting for you.” 

“I-I,” he looks away from me, “I think we should sit down for this. It’ll be long.”

I yawn. “Is it urgent,” I ask sheepishly, pulling away, “As jazzed as I am to hear whatever you were up to, I’m exhausted. Spending time in a cell was not it.”

“It can wait,” he nods. “Take my room.”

“There’s like twenty spare rooms I’ve found so far. It’s fine. I’m not kicking you out of your bed.” I wrap my arms around my chest, itching to change into something more comfortable. Wearing most wizarding clothes was a little too close to dress up for me all these years later. I wasn’t sure I’d ever feel completely at home in dresses I had a fear of tripping on. 

Maybe it would take wearing them more often for me to feel like I wasn’t getting all dolled up for a ball. 

“Most of the beds are doxie eaten,” Regulus says with a playful smile, “besides, I never said you were kicking me out.”

“Don’t be a dickhead,” I laugh. This wasn’t a thing. I didn’t have to read into it like it was reading the tea leaves at the bottom of my cup. Not that I’d taken divination, but Michelle had, and she’d taken to reading all our fortunes. 

We’d fallen asleep. . .together. . .before. 

It wasn’t a thing. 

“Alright, mostly because I’m falling asleep on my feet here.” These last few days have not gone very well for me. But, my friends had rushed to my side. They hadn’t even hesitated.

“Okay,” Regulus says, apparating us up to his room. 

I dissolve into laughter, “it is that type of night isn’t it?”

“It’s nearly nine in the morning.”

“Wow,” I blink. 

“Do you want a change of clothes,” he asks me, already rifling through his drawers.

“Yes,” I say, flopping onto his bed, “I’m over this. I want one of those matching pajamas you have and to hopefully never have to wear robes again,” I ramble, “it did keep me warm in the cell.”

“I promise you’ll never have to spend time in a cell again,” he says softly, putting down a set of cornflower blue pinstripe pajamas next to me. 

“You don’t know that.” I reluctantly get up. Regulus was the only person I’d ever known who actually used a changing screen. Why? No clue. There was no reason, but it was better than those people who just randomly had screens in their living room for decoration. 

It was incredibly convenient right now. 

“Jane-,” he says. . .”it’s going to be alright.”

“Is it,” I reply, my voice sounding smaller than I meant it to. There were so many things that could go wrong. Some of them had already gone wrong. 

It’s not like he hadn’t warned me about it months ago. 

Merlin, had it only been months. 

I have to roll up the sleeves and cuff the pajama pants, but I’m already feeling a thousand times better. I was also done for the day. 

“Yeah,” Regulus says, “I think so.” 

Laying down on my side, I close my eyes. “That’s good,” I mumble, letting myself drift off to sleep. 

  
  
  


I wake up to the smell of toast and rashers- in bed. Top ten moments in my life really. 

I lift my head.

Kreacher’s dinner plate eyes stare at me from the edge of the bed. “The food is ready for when Miss and Master wake up.” 

If I still wanted to fall back asleep, Kreacher woke me up completely. “What time is it?”

“It’s six.”

“Pm?” I jolt up. 

“It’s morning again,” he says helpfully. Then the elf’s face falls. “The traitor is sniffing around the kitchen: spreading his filth.”

Oh no. We were back to filth. 

I was leaving that conversation for Regulus. “Okay. Thanks for the info.” I was starving. So I go for the food, moving to sit on the floor. 

It's ridiculous how good the food tastes. The elf isn't some master chef, but this feels like the best meal of my life. It's hard to go wrong with rashers. There's clotted cream and butter for the toast which I slather on generously with the butter knife. I don't even worry that I slept for a full day. I just pour myself a cuppa tea into the cup patterned with brown and green vines full of thorns that bloom as I add sugar and milk to my tea. 

I sigh contentedly. 

“What are you doing down there,” Regulus teases, peering over the edge of the bed at me. 

“Having tea,” I reply easily, before taking a large bite of toast, my cheeks bulging. I cover my mouth with my hand. “Now. You've got some explaining to do.”

“I do,” he nods, smiling easily before coming to join me on the floor, back resting against the side of his bed. Unlike my room, his was neat, in hues of blue and green that didn't always match but had been salvaged from the mess of linens in the cupboards. 

I wave my hand busy chewing in a get on with it motion, before pouring him a cuppa tea. It was an incredibly aromatic blueberry tea that seemed more like dessert. The warmth of the cup spread from my hands. 

He accepts the tea, setting it down next to him on the floor. “I talked with Dumbledore.”

“I'd gathered as much,” I say sarcastically.

Regulus gives me a long look. 

“Alright,” I say, appeasingly, “I'll let you talk.”

“I very much doubt that,” he snickers. Which, okay, I had a lot to say. So what. 

“Oi!”

He laughs, shoulders shaking lightly, throwing his head back against the bed. 

I roll my eyes, sipping my tea. 

“I told him about the horcruxes. Explained that was the reason for breaking into Hogwarts. I didn't want to tell him too much until I-I needed something to bargain. We went down to get Moody. He was completely wrecked from having spent half the year in a chest. Moody also confirmed what Barty said under veritaserum; that he and Pettigrew overpowered him. He said he heard Voldemort, but didn't get a good look at him.” He pauses, wrapping his hands around his teacup. He doesn't drink. “If he thought anything of me being there he didn't say anything. Dumbledore asked for proof of past horcruxes which made me assume it was a theory he had no evidence for. He also asked after you,” Regulus adds, meeting my gaze. 

“He was worried I think, about how you ended up mixed up in all this.”

“Well,” I utter, feeling heat rise to my face, “As a muggleborn, I have a pretty good reason for not wanting Voldemort to come back.”

“Yes, well,” he trails off, smiling fondly at me. 

I smile back at him. 

“Then he asked me where I had gone and I said muggle England. Dumbledore must have had more questions but by then we’d reached his office.”

“-and then we left together,” I frown. They had shown up to the ministry together.

“I went back,” he admits. “When-both men heard Riddle. He's trying to come back. And then you said the snake was one, like Harry Potter. It was an unprecedented opportunity to surprise him. We had the upper hand.”

Blankly, I say out loud just so we're on the same page. I wanted him to stop dancing around the topic. “You and Dumbledore went after Voldemort that night.”

He ducks his head, looking away from me. “Well. . .yes.”

I repeat, feeling a sharp pang of anger stab through my chest, “You. And Dumbledore went after Voldemort.”

“Yes.” 

He looks at me from the corner of his eye. 

I set my cup down, not sure if I wanted to hug him close or smack him. “Why didn't you tell me! You could have died and I'd never have known!”

Regulus replies evenly, “If I had told you, you would have wanted to come with us.”

“Yes,” I reply, getting up, “I would have.” 

“Jane-,” he pinches the bridge of his nose, “It was Riddle. There. I couldn't let anything happen to you.”

“So you left me behind,” I say, hurt. He was acting like I was some child who couldn't hold my own. And even if I hadn't wanted to face Voldemort or whatever was hiding out at the Crouch’s house, it was my choice.

“I didn't want you getting hurt,” he says plainly, standing up as well. 

“It wasn't your decision to make,” I snap. “I had a right to know.”

Clearly, and in a transparent attempt to change the subject, Regulus says, “the snake’s dead. Pettigrew and Riddle got away.”

I roll my eyes. “You should have told me. We are in this together.” I try to hold his gaze but he looks down at the floor, avoiding my eyes. “Aren't we?” 

“Of course we are.” 

Swallowing, I ask, still nursing the sting of hurt, “anything else I should know.”

His silver eyes meet mine. “I had time to tell Dumbledore of the HP issue. And we've decided that we should focus on that, since as long as Voldemort does not regain a body, he’ll wither away. Then we went to talk to Minister Fudge directly.” He purses his lips, “he has to be one of the most unremarkable men to hold office.” 

“Yeah, well, I don't really give a bloody damn about Fudge.” 

Regulus blanches. “We told him about Pettigrew and Dumbledore gave him Barry's memories. Along with Crouch’s and Moody’s statements we've been able to place the triwizard tournament on pause while the aurors secure the remaining tasks. Peter Pettigrew being alive gives reason to reopen Sirius’ case. And I told Fudge that we were attempting to finish off some dark relics Voldemort left behind. Due to their dark nature Fudge agreed that my trial should be closed. You're basically free of suspicion. Skeeter didn't write about you. Though your arrest was photographed.” 

“So you think Harry's the last horcrux?” Was that seven? I purse my lips, counting off on my fingers: the locket, whatever opened the chamber of secrets, the ring, the cup, the diadem, the snake. . .Harry made seven but he was probably an accident. 

“It seems that way.”

I nod, heading to the door. It was time to take a bath and deal with the world. My friends deserve an explanation. I might as well tell my parents where I was. I turn back to look at Regulus, at my friend, my love, and so many other things, “I'm still mad at you. But we might as well go figure out how to keep you out of Azkaban so I can keep living in London for free.”

“Dumbledore will be over on the weekend to deal with the Riddle situation.” He runs a hand through his hair. 

“Okay.” I open the door to leave. I also had to sort out another room. Or sort out a different room for Sirius? No, I couldn't kick him out of his own room in his own home. 

“Jane-” 

“Yes?” 

“Even if I-even if I go to prison,” he says in a very muggle way, “you can stay here as long as you like.”

“Mi casa es su casa,” I say wiggling my eyebrows and momentarily forgetting I was annoyed at him. Bloody idiot, ready to go throw himself at Riddle without letting me know. Professor Dumbledore wouldn't watch his back the way I would. 

“I'm sorry Jane.”

“Don't hide shit from me,” I reply back tiredly, leaving the comfort of his room. It was awful, being sidelined and left out of the loop. What made it all worse was the fact that I’d been doing the same thing to my friends for months now. 

I was a shit friend. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally, jane was going to go with dumbledore and regulus to confront peter pettigrew, nagini, and voldemort. but thematically i thought it would work this way since from now on regulus and jane's world has meshed with the world at large, their no longer in their own bubble. not sure im happy with this decision but after working on this chapter and considering redoing ch 31 and 32. . .im going to stick with this choice. 
> 
> peter pettigrew and voldemort are still at large. . .only voldemort is still disembodied so yay for that.


	34. Part III: in the eye of the storm

It had only been a day but Sirius Black already looked more like a man and less like the grim maniacal figure from his wanted posters. His hair was wet from having showered as he looked shamelessly through the cupboards, with a grimace on his mouth at being reminded he was stuck in Grimmauld Place for the foreseeable future. Sirius had changed into his old muggle clothes, bell bottoms years out of fashion. 

It took years off his features. 

When you're eleven and fifteen, thirty seems ancient, but I now realized just how young both Black brothers were to have lived through the wizarding war. Sirius had spent a decade in prison: a decade he should have spent figuring out what he wanted in life and going to the pub with his friends. Your twenties were supposed to be the best years of your life. 

I sigh, feeling like a deflated balloon after arguing with Regulus. 

Belatedly I realize I'm still wearing his pajamas, their crisp ironing only made the wrinkles on the thick smooth cotton all the more prominent. House elf ironing was so simple compared to the ironing board that my mom had long since given up on that was stuffed in some closet back in Blackpool. I rolled the sleeves up twice as I headed to the kitchen figuring I might as well get started on getting a phone installed and Kreacher would be the most helpful with that task. 

Sirius smirks haughty when he notices me. “So how long exactly have you been here--you moved all my things.”

“The posters were the hardest to get down,” I admit. “But bikini clad women don't really do it for me.”

“I'd gathered that.” 

My skin heats up. “I-um,” I decided to ignore whatever he's on about. I was sure that Sirius had been exactly like the Weasley twins when he'd been young--incorrigible. I flee to the kitchen. 

Or try to flee to the kitchen. 

At that moment, Kreacher pokes his head out the door, “breakfast is served.” His huge bug eyes give me a meaningful look, “like always.” The house elf glances at Sirius with the same disdain Sirius sends his way. 

I could never have a quiet day. Everything had to be dramatic, always. It made me miss the uniform days in Blackpool. 

“Sure, yeah.” I tell Kreacher. “Can you set up that phone I bought? I dunno how magical houses work.”

Kreacher nods before disappearing back into the kitchen, having marked his territory. 

Sirius snorts. “First my records now a telephone.”

“I like your records,” I admit. “All my dads are from random spanish music and my mum didn't keep any. I don't think we even have a record player anymore to be honest.” I take a seat at the table that clearly hasn't been used since we first dusted it and cleared the pixies out of the chandelier. The chairs were still stained in places but they were no longer any holes in the upholstery. 

They're not comfortable chairs. 

Sirius sits down across from me, leaning back without slumping down, looking as comfortable in the crumbling decadence as any muggle toff had during the royal wedding of Princess Di. 

It's a pitiful breakfast. Kreacher set out a pot of tea, slices of bread and baked beans. Or maybe I've been spoiled to the point of thinking this was a poor breakfast. 

“I'm surprised this lot didn't vanish all my things when I left,” Sirius says nonchalantly. “Didn't have much time to pack when I ran off. Didn't even plan on running off that night.” 

“I'm glad they didn't.” I smile, pouring myself a cup of fragrant. “I wouldn't have music to paint too in that case. Wizarding radio doesn't have the range.”

Sirius laughs, slathering baked beans into toast. “Yes, I noticed the paintings. Lot’s of sea views.”

“I think I’m going through a blue phase,” I admit, thinking about Picasso. “There’s just so many shades of blue that can be mixed especially with water and I dunno. . .water’s a difficult thing to get right,” I ramble on, cupping my tea for warmth, “and I’m not trained or anything--with art I mean, but you just know when it’s wrong. Maybe that’s what a so-called artistic eye is? Not so much taste but knowing when a painting looks right, or would that still just be good taste? But it’s art so it's subjective.” I frown into my cuppa, “that can't be right.” 

With a bemused smile, Sirius asks, “What I don't understand is how you and my brother,” he waves a hand around the room. His tone is light but his gaze is intense, as burning as it had been on the posters the year before, and a steely intelligence very much present in his expression. He wasn't a reckless teenager anymore than he was an insane escaped convict. 

Sirius wasn't asking about Grimmauld Place. 

I shrug, slumped in my seat, brows furrowing as I figure out what to say. Friends didn't have to have the same interest to be friends--there was deeper more important stuff like trust and understanding. Penelope read healer journals and could be introverted to her own detriment, but we were still friends. 

“It just sort of happened. He was. . .”  _ there. . .kind. . .open enough to keep me company while I figured myself out-was still figuring myself out.  _ “-is a good listener,” I finish lamely. “Your friends are never who you expect them to be.”

I sip at my tea just to do something. The warmth of it spread through my chest and eased the tension that was still running through my thoughts even after getting rest; if anything, I'd gotten more worried after I found out what Regulus had been up to. It didn't matter that there was nothing I could do about it now, I still felt the weight of it on my shoulders. 

Between mouthfuls, Sirius asks, “Are you not going to eat?” 

I shrug, feeling that it would be rude to tell him I already did. 

“Kreacher,” the man scowls, annoyed as he rolls his eyes. “Everything in this house has it out for me.”

Which just struck me as overly harsh and wrong.  _ Thing.  _ He’d called Kreacher a thing. His comment made a protectiveness flare inside me for Kreacher who, while not my house elf, was certainly someone I’d count as a friend. 

“He’s probably more focused on mending the furniture,” I try. “Or just lost track of things what with being bloody worried the past few days.” 

“He’s a house elf, not a pet.” 

“I wouldn’t call a sentient being a pet,” I huff. 

We lapse into silence. 

I pour myself more tea. There was nothing that I should urgently be doing, which was terrible because I’d like something to take my mind off everything including the technical house arrest going on. I’d yet to peek at the aurors outside. 

Like Regulus, Sirius dumps as much sugar and milk as he can into his tea. 

The candlelight flickers despite the candles being ever burning. There’s no windows. It makes for a dark and needlessly solemn dining room without any natural light. The kitchen didn’t have any windows either, but it was cozier and lived in. 

This room reminded me too much of that cold dark holding cell. 

“You can have the room,” Sirius offers. “I’d prefer not to stay in my old room if I am to stay here for the foreseeable future.”

“Are you sure?”

“There are plenty of rooms in this house.” He nods. “Though I’ll be taking my things. Nothing like a good pair of denim.”

“Presuming you still fit into them,” I mutter. It had been over a decade. 

Sirius snorts, choking on his tea. 

“I’m going to go change then.” I practically flee from the dining room. 

The door leading to the kitchen is ajar, and I can hear Regulus and Kreacher. I don’t call them out on it, disappearing upstairs. 

I throw the curtains open in my room, pulling the window up and open even as the ancient wood does its best to remain stubbornly in place. The painted wood was cracked like an old painting. 

Instead of immediately changing, I lay down on the ground and sunbathe. I needed it, after the days I’d had. The other night I’d been too tired to process, but being in that cell had been awful. I had missed the sun and fresh air and not being held by the ministry. A shiver runs down my spine. 

It had freaked me out, more than I realized. 

So I roll onto my belly and accio my sketchbook. 

I’d rather think about perspective and light then that right now. I should be fine. At most I’d be a witness: a very biased witness, but a witness all the same. Would I have to go on trial then?

Ugh. 

I take up a pencil and start to draw the view from the window. With only graphite, I rely on shading to try and recreate the way the light streams in through the window. My eraser comes in handy to smudge the lines into something resembling a ray of light. 

Pencils were where it was at. 

Quills were messy and left ink stains on all my shirts. 

Sirius steps into the room. “You still haven't changed.” I can practically see the grin on his face without bothering to look up. 

“I'm drawing,” I state, “And it's not like I'm going anywhere right now. Unless Kreacher can't set up the phone, then I'll have to use a pay phone to call my parents. I keep meaning to tell them. . .maybe I could just mail them the prophet?” Now there was an idea that was bound to have them taking the first train down to London. Dad was going to be bloody pissed when he found out I’d been with Regulus this entire time considering he didn't much like the look of him from the get go. 

“I'm just going to start taking my things downstairs,” he comments. 

“Yeah, go for it.”

He levitates the boxes in the oak armoire, and drags out his old school trunk from the corner of the room I'd shoved it into. There's also the records that have taken up place on the shelves among some books I'd been half reading or meaning to read. Sirius takes a handful at random and the floating objects follow him out in a single file line. 

It's only after he's left I realize he's been wordlessly casting. 

It's another hour before I can be assed to change into a cozy jumper and a pair of old trusty denim that are beyond frayed at the ends. A jumper and denim was practically my uniform due to my multitude of jumpers. I could never resist a good jumper at a charity shop. Not even this moth-eaten number with the lime green and plum purple stripes that was perfectly worn in cotton that wouldn’t have held up in the winter but was perfect for lounging around or layering. It was threadbare. But it was also right up my alley. 

Like me, Sirius had left the bed unmade. 

I toss the pijamas I’d used last night onto the bed. They were probably still clean. I had just showered. I’d also slept in them for an entire day. Kreacher could figure it out, and give them back to Regulus as well. 

The other shoe had fallen and nothing had happened since then. I had imagine being immediately accosted inside Grimmauld Place by the ministry and my friends but so far nothing had changed other then the guards outside, but it was easy to ignore the fact hanging over us all as I walk back down to living room with the almost floor to ceiling windows that had been uncovered under what felt like twenty heavily embroidered and dusty curtains. I’d replaced them with a hastily made bed sheet that wasn’t incredibly yellowed and if you didn’t know they were bedsheets, you couldn’t tell the difference. 

Like a plant, I wanted light. 

I’ve only just sat down when the door knocker sounds. A groan sounds through the walls of the house; the house itself wasn’t keen on having visitors over. I wonder what that says about past generations of the Black family. 

Sirius comes bolting down the stairs from the second floor: wand raised. There’s dust smeared on his cheek as he takes the steps two at a time, looking every bit as fierce as he had the first time I’d seen him. 

“Expecting anyone,” he asks harshly. 

“I dunno. Ministry maybe? Or Penelope’s brother, your, you know, barrister.” The guard should still be out there so it was unlikely to be anything epically awful like Riddle himself. They’d knocked though, “I don’t think it’s the ministry though so probably Penelope’s brother.” It made the most sense. 

“Go on then, open the door.” Sirius motions, wand still raised, eyes trained down the hallway that led to the front door. 

“Jane do not open that door,” Regulus calls out, making his own appearance on the staircase, today’s paper in hand. “Sirius put away the wand.” 

Sirius does not put away his wand. “How magnanimous of you,” he says with a sneer, hanging back near the closed portrait of Walburga Black that had rotten beyond repair, leaving a broken house alarm in place of what should have been the matriarch’s superbly flattering portrait. Paintings were a good way to depict people through a rose coloured lens. 

Regulus ignores his brother as he walks down the hall past me, taping a sconce mounted next to the door. The door goes semi-transparent for a second revealing the perpetually tired gangly form of Professor Lupin flanked by two aurors that looked like village gossips instead of the elite police of the wizarding world. 

Sirius finally lowers his wand, breaking out a grin at the sight of the man. 

Regulus finally opens the door. 

What’s Professor Lupin doing here I wonder as the man steps in through the door. The aurors make to follow, but Regulus is already replying forcefully, “you don’t have a permission to enter,” before he bolts the door shut again. 

“Sirius,” Professor Lupin calls out in greeting, rushing at the man and enveloping him in a bone crushing hug that Sirius returns with just as much gusto. “I heard-you’re here!”

“Unfortunately,” Sirius grins. “Makes one miss Bella’s lunatic howling.” He gives Professor Lupin a sly smile that speaks of inside jokes. 

Regulus lets out a sigh by me, “I’ll let Kreature know to get another room ready.”

“Wait-how do you two know each other,” I ask as Regulus retreats back up the stairs, solidly away from his brother. 

“Miss Saldana,” Professor Lupin exclaims, finally stepping away, but not out of reach of his friend. . .apparently, “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

Unlike him, I lived here. “Neither did I.” 

I hadn’t taken defense with him, having dropped it after OWLs, but the new defense professor was an easy source of gossip every year. He’d received nothing but glowing praise as a professor, a huge step up from Lockhart, even when the whole werewolf thing was revealed, a lot of students had been sad to see him go. It was rare to have a good defense professor. 

“Sirius is an old friend.”

“Really?” I’d pegged Lupin as much older. Not ancient, but he seemed to be in his early forties, closer to my parents' age then Sirius’. Being a werewolf must take its toll. The transformation sounded unpleasant. 

“We were friends in school,” he adds, side stepping the whole azkaban thing. “When I read about his,” he looks over at Sirius, “about your arrest I wrote your solicitor, Francis Clearwater, and he let me know where you were.” 

“You were a student last year?” Sirius raises a brow with too much mirth. “Merlin we’re old,” he says pointedly. 

I don’t engage. “I graduated last year, though I didn’t take defense. Penelope said you were a brilliant professor.”

“Not good at defense,” Sirius asks before Professor Lupin can respond. 

“I didn’t care for it. No offense Professor.”

“Please, call me Remus. I was only a Professor for a year.”

“Like all the defense professors,” I joke. 

Remus’ eyes crinkle up as he smiles. 

Kreacher saves me from being a third wheel by apparating on the stairs with a crack. “The. . .” he shivers with a grimace as he continues, “ _ muggle  _ jelly phone is ready Miss. In the library.”

“Perfect, I think it’s still early enough to call,” I bound up the stairs after him. 

Kreacher waits for me before leading me up to the library I’m often in with Regulus. He shakes his head warily, “Miss must be careful with werewolves.” 

It was day. There wouldn’t be a full moon for another week or two. Remus was hardly a danger to anyone but the elf’s words were out of concern not hatred so I don’t bother getting into it with him. Kreacher was only trying to be helpful. He’d set up a telephone for me. Months ago he’d ignored me completely. 

“I think Remus is fine at the moment,” I reply evenly as we enter the library where Regulus has holed up in. 

“Are you avoiding me or your brother,” I ask him as he looks up at me. He’s reading a particularly elaborate book with enough pictures to keep anyone interested even if most of the content are detailed illustrations on plants. 

“I thought you might be avoiding me.” 

I roll my eyes as I spy the phone tucked into a corner with an ugly magenta and black polka dotted vase and that almost hides the phone entirely. “If I was avoiding you, you’d know.”

“I would, wouldn’t I.” 

“I don’t think I’m very big on avoiding people,” I think out loud, “I’m more of a word vom with a side of hugging with my problems, maybe a good sob too.”

“I’ve noticed,” Regulus says with a smile. 

“Do you really think Remus is staying over?”

“It’s the exact type of thing Sirius will come up with to annoy me.”

“And will it? Annoy you that is? Remus is nice enough. Penelope only had good things to say about him. Michelle liked the fact he brought in a dementor for a lesson.”

Regulus shakes his head. “I don’t particularly care either way. But he’ll at least be there to put up with my brother because I’m not in the mood.” 

“Are you alright?” Concern has me looking him over studiously. The runs through his hair are obvious enough from where he’s been running his hands through his hair as he thinks. But he looks fresh faced after a good night's sleep and his silver eyes are present. He’s not in any sort of flashback I can note. 

“Stressed. Mr. Clearwater’s at the ministry sorting more paperwork out, but he wrote that he’d be coming over in an hour.”

“You think Penelope’ll come too.”

Regulus smirks, “I’d be surprised if she didn’t.”

“That means Michelle too. She’ll give Sirius a run for his money.” I was already imagining the scene. It would be nice to have more people over. This house felt huge when it had just been me, Regulus, and Kreacher. It was probably why the three of us were always hanging out in the same room doing our own thing. 

“Now stop delaying and call your parents,” Regulus says with a shit eating grin. “I’ll give you privacy.” 

“Phone calls, instantaneous howlers.”

He laughs as he leaves. 

I buck up and dial my parents. 

The dial rings. 

And rings. 

Before-

“Hello,” my mom’s voice calls out, “this is the Alice Saldana. Who is this?”

“Mum. . .it’s me. I finally got a phone.” My voice breaks at the end. 

“Jane. Sweetie! How are you?”

“Um. Alright.”

“What's wrong? You sound off sweetheart.” 

“Well, you know how I’ve said I’m living with friends. . .”

“Yes, your friends from school. I still want to meet Penelope. She sounds like a dear.”

“Yeah well. . .I’m not. Well, I am staying with a friend just not the friends you’re-I made you think I was. Um,” the words get stuck in my mouth like taffy. “I’m staying with. . .well it turns out. . .”

“Jane. Spit it out. You’re worrying me,” my mum says. 

“Well it turns out Mr. Black was a wizard the whole time. He fought in that war I told you about mummy. And-well, it’s not as over as people thought it was. The evil wizard, Voldemort, left traps behind and Mr. Black found out and I sort of went with him to help. Professor Dumbledore’s helping too. So I’m staying with Mr. Black and some other wizards and Penelope’s coming over in an hour,” I rush out to try and make this all sound less horrible than it did. 

“Jane what the bloody hell!”

“Mum-”

“Why would you lie! Why would you even get involved in something so dangerous!”

“Mum-”

“-Your dad was right about that man, he’s a nutter!”

“Wizard! And he’s actually brilliant and kind and my friend so don’t call him that!” 

“Jane,” my mother sighs. “Are you okay.”

“I-I am.” 

There’s a tense pause. 

“You’ve given me a lot to think about. I-come home.”

I swallow thickly. “I can’t.”

“Jane-”

“Mum-”

“I’ll feel much better if we talk about this in person. I just. . .I’ve always hated having you so far from me and children leave home eventually only you’ve been leaving home since you were eleven and I thought I’d have more time with you. I hate not-not being about to help you with this entire witch thing.” 

Tears well up in my eyes. I’d never known how my parents felt about me being a witch. They were supportive, but we didn’t talk about how they must have felt finding out: waiting for me outside of Diagon Alley while I shopped for school supplies. “I will. We’ll talk about this, I just have a lot of things to take care of in London right now.”

“Alright, but Jane.”

“Yes mum.” 

“No more lies.” 

My heart breaks for putting them through this. I’ve just dumped insane revelation after revelation over the phone. “Yeah. I can do that.” I hope. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things i love that didn't make the cut: sirius basically going if remus was teaching while jane was a student she's too young for you bruv
> 
> i still dont know if im writing sirius well!!!! on the plus side ive outlined the rest of the fic. *kronk voice* its all coming together. rereading the last few chapters to get back into jane's pov has me realizing once again that michelle and penelope think janes been with sirius this entire time. should be cleared up next chapter. 
> 
> this was going to be the chapter when the clearwaters and michelle come over but i ended up having remus appear and jane and sirius spend time together. sirius and jane's interactions can basically be boiled down to them starting to get along but then fumbling and lapsing into awkward silence.


	35. Part III: one bleak day

Francis sets up his war room in the parlor I’ve painted a victorian woods scene in which suits the pastel greens and fawny browns that make up the colour scheme Kreacher had decided on. Michelle and Penelope help him carry in boxes of paperwork. 

“The ministry has requested to confiscate your wands,” he informs the room as he starts organizing the boxes full of scrolls. 

Regulus stuffings besides. 

His brother immediately huffs. “Like fucking hell am I giving up my wand.” 

“Sirius be reasonable,” Remus starts, having taken a seat next to his friend. 

Michelle kept throwing me scheming looks like she wanted to blurt something out but was waiting for an opening to corner me. Penelope was much the same. She kept glancing at me even though the man the prophet had yet to shut up about was sitting in the room with us. It made me want to drag them out of the room to get the interrogation over with.

I smother a laugh. Here we were prepping for Sirius’ actual interrogation and I was thinking of a much lower stakes gab session. 

“Alright,” Regulus offers. 

I wonder if he's thinking of the assortment of wands we'd found around the house when we had been cleaning. He was a snake through and through. 

“I've been fending off a search warrant since there's no grounds for a search under the president set by The Ministry V Enoch Gaunt in 1759. Given the colorful history of the Black family I'm sure you'd agree it's a terrible idea if a search warrant gets through.” Francis states clinically. 

Sirius grins wolfishly. “Oh we would be properly fucked if the house was searched. Wouldn't we Regulus? Or has the decoupage in your room changed?” 

Regulus ignores him. 

“Then we can hand over the wands. Good,” Francis continues. “Fudge wants Sirius Black dealt with as soon as possible due to the public pressure so the deadline to submit evidence is next week and the trial starts in two weeks.” He stares at Sirius evenly. “As your solicitor, I need to know all the details that way I know which evidence to go after. It will also be good practice for the deposition on Thursday.” 

“That soon,” Remus asks, looking over at Sirius who looks like a petulant teenager at the idea of having to go back to the Ministry in four days. 

“They’re rushing it. The atrium is in pandemonium at the moment. Suddenly everyone’s an eyewitness.” Francis pushes his glass up. “I also think that we should submit Regulus’ deposition on the same day. The optics would be good. It won’t look like we are taking the time to change our story. Since it’ll be a closed trial it will take longer for the ministry to review and get back to us. Same goes for that evidence.” 

He then looks around the room. We’ve all smushed in. Michelle’s sitting on a side table. I can just make out the tips of Kreacher’s ears behind a cabinet. “How would you be most comfortable doing this Sirius?”

Michelle rolls her eyes, “I didn’t carry loads of paper for you to kick me out now!”

Penelope swats her arm. “Michelle!”

I snort. 

Sirius shrugs, leaning back and making himself more comfortable in the museum worthy chair upholstered in mint green silk and gold thread, “I have nothing to hide.” 

“Are you sure?” Remus glances over in concern. 

Sirius scowls. “Didn’t you just hear me?”

Remus shakes his head, forehead lined with worry. 

“Well then,” Francis takes out a heavy looking quill and thick brown paper engraved with runes. “The sooner we get started, the quicker we can finish.” 

Bluntly, Sirius states. “I didn’t betray James and Lily. I wasn’t even their secret keeper so I couldn’t have.” His jaw tightens as the quill writes automatically as it floats in the air on official ministry documentation. “We thought we were being clever. I’d go into hiding so everyone would think I was their secret keeper, meanwhile Peter was the actual secret keeper. Of course he turned out to be a bloody rat.” 

Remus looks down at the rug, a shadow crossing his gentle features. The scars that cross his face take on a menacing look. 

They were deeper than Regulus’ own scars, more jagged and raw. 

“Is there any way to collaborate Peter Petigrew’s involvement?” 

“I saw him last year. Almost had him,” Sirius says darkly, looking as furious as Barty had when casting unforgivables. 

“I saw him as well,” Remus offers, “on the same night. Would it help if I gave my memories as evidence?”

“Loads,” Francis nods. “Was anyone else there that night?”

Both men go silent, looking over at each other, trying to decide what to offer up. 

So much for telling Francis Clearwater everything. 

“Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermoine Granger were there,” Remus finally states, “Severus Snape stumbled upon us as well. I’d prefer not to get underaged witches and wizards involved.” 

Sirius shoots Regulus a look, managing a smirk despite the severity of the situation. 

Regulus rolls his eyes. 

“Can you recount the events of October the 32st of 1981?” 

Sirius looks away from Francis, his eyes glossing over as he remembers the end of the wizarding war, herald in by the death of his close friends, friends he’d been accused of murdering. It was easy to overlook his grating habit of needling at me and Regulus when I remembered how long he had suffered Azkaban unjustly. He looks haunted, a specter made flesh. “I heard that-that James and Lily had been murdered. That Voldemort was dead.” 

He pauses. 

Any gossiping inclination silenced by the somber mood. 

My stomach twists in knots. In History, the names and numbers were so distant of all the lives lost and the people still missing after the war. It was easy to forget how many lives had been cut short, how many people had been left destroyed with the death of their loved ones. The Potters. The Massacre at Jourdemayne, a stone’s throw from Kent, when the entire Bone’s family along with their muggle neighbors had been murdered in a single night. The list went on. 

“I-I didn’t think. . .James-the Potters. . .” Sirius balls his hands up in fists. “They were my family. I didn’t think, I just went to Godric's Hollow. I wanted-I was hoping everyone was wrong and James and Lily would be alive and laughing and wondering why I’d turned up. I drove my motorbike over. 

Even the foundations were torn apart. It was awful. I’d-I’d grown up there. They-I found Harry. Merlin only knows how he remained unscathed. And. . .they’d named me his godfather,” Sirius’ voice breaks. He leans his head back against the chair, looking up at the ceiling, looking up and closing his eyes. “I wanted to keep him safe. I really botched that one.” 

He sighs. 

“After I ran into Rubeus Hagrid, and he-he convinced me to give him Harry. Merlin-,” Sirius rubs his fingers against his forehead, reliving what was the worst night of his life. “I-the state I was in. I wanted-I knew it had to be Peter. I wanted to strangle him with my own bare hands. I should’ve been focused on Harry, just on him, but I was seething. I wanted vengeance. So many people-we’d been at war for so long and I’d lost so many friends. . .friends who only wanted to help, people who just happened to be muggleborn or so called blood traitors.” 

Francis was a handful of years older than me and Penelope. He was old enough to remember the tail end of the war. He would’ve been just a child. 

Only three people in the room had fought in the war. And one of them had been on the wrong side. 

No wonder Regulus was still marked by the experience years later. The guilt never went away when the impact was so deeply felt by wizarding Britain. 

“Do you think we could contact Mr. Hagrid for further testimony,” Francis asks clinically. 

Sirius laughs humorlessly. “Some defense this’ll be. A werewolf and a half giant, I bet the Ministry will love this.” 

“I don’t see why we can’t try to contact Rubeus,” Remus says. 

Silence grows as we all wait without trying to stare at Sirius: for him to continue. 

Sirius swallows, shifting in the chair. The length of his dark hair really fills in the seventies throwback he was sporting. 

Finally, he continues, “I sought him out. I went looking for Peter Pettigrew. I wasn’t thinking-I just wanted James and Lily back. I wanted him to pay-I wanted to make things right. I’m not sure even I knew what I was doing in that state.

I found him of course. In the muggle village down the road from Godric’s Hollow, twitching like the rat bastard. He begged and pleaded and cried as I wrung the truth out of him: how Voldemort himself sought him out. He was weak and spineless. So many had died rather than cooperate with that genocidal dark wizard. Peter had sold them out and-then he cut off his finger and blew up the street,” Sirius finishes bitterly. “He was an animagus you see. A rat. And he hid with the Weasley family for twelve long years. That’s how I found him.” A torrent of words pours out from Sirius at a feverish pace. “Arthur Weasley’s family was on the cover of the Prophet along with poor dear old dead Peter. It was then that I was able to gather my wits about me with a single minded focus to finally extract revenge for James and Lily. You see-the dementors feed on happiness, but all I had was vengeance, an obstinate obsessive idea that kept me warm as I rotten away in Azkaban. And find him again I did-only the bastard managed to escape again.” 

Sirius’ story knocks the wind out of me. I don’t know anyone who wouldn’t be moved by what happened. 

“And do you have any way to prove Peter Pettigrew was an animagus,” Francis asks, no doubt already writing letters to Rubeus and Professor Snape. 

“The testimony of memory I intend to give of the 25th of May 1993,” Remus explains, “will show Peter transforming.” 

“Good, good.” Francis seals the letters with a potion instead of wax. 

Sirius rolls his eyes. “I need a drink.” 

A crack sounds as Kreacher disappears, no doubt to hide the alcohol, as Sirius strides out of the room, throwing the door open. 

Remus chases after his friend. 

It catches me off guard when I notice for the first time that Remus is half a head taller than Sirius. It was easy to miss because Remus slouched terribly. 

“Why are you using a potion,” Michelle asks, breaking the rising tension easily. 

“It’s more secure this way,” Francis replies, looking up from the stack of papers. “It’s an expensive potion to make which is why it’s not in use widely outside of official documents in the courts. It’s more economical to just send a message via a patronus if you’re trying to send a secure message.” 

“You can do that,” Michelle looks over at me and Penelope excitedly. 

“Don’t look at me,” I state, “I can’t manage a corporeal patronus.” 

Regulus speaks up for once, something he was loath to do around people he didn’t exactly trust or know, “that was how the order of the phoenix was known to communicate during the war.” 

“I suppose that answers which side you were on,” Penelope coldly says, crossing her arms over her chest. 

Michelle looks at Regulus expectantly. This was a rather dark version of childhood story time. 

Regulus looks back at her blandly. 

“I think we should adjur for a moment,” Francis says, shuffling more papers. I was starting to realize being a solicitor just meant filling out loads of paperwork, like writing an endlessly long essay. “There’s some paperwork I should get started on. Not to mention this will be a closed trial so you can’t be in here for Regulus’ recollection.” 

She looks devastated by the news. 

Penelope rolls her eyes. “Jane, can you show us where the loo is?” 

“Um, yeah, of course.” I get up and lead them out of the room, Penelope practically dragging Michelle along with us. 

“Why do girls always go to the loo in packs,” I hear Francis complain behind us. 

We don’t go to the loo. 

I choose the room that faces the courtyard garden that continues to be overrun with weeds. There were probably entire colonies of gnomes living in there. It was a room that didn't make me feel trapped. 

Penelope plops down next to me on the settee, the stuffing poking out of the holes in the metallic blue fabric that looks closer to a brown fungus even after a deep clean. Unlike the upholstery the wooden frame shone after being repainted gold. The settee creaks as we get comfortable. 

Michelle doesn't hold back. “What the bloody hell Jane! You-you were arrested! On the prophet! And shacking up with A DEATH EATER!” 

I flinch. 

It's not like I don't deserve it. After everything I'd kept from them, they'd still stood by me in my hour of need. 

“It's a long story-,” I start. 

“I sort of figured it would be,” Penelope says, tucking her hair behind her ears. 

Michelle sits down forcefully in a peacock chair. “Well,” she utters, throwing her hands up in the air. Her skin isn't all red and blotchy from anger, concern written into the way she leans forward, mouth slanted down as she catches my gaze with a soft expression in her amber eyes. 

“You know how I had all those muggle friends back home in Blackpool,” I start, explaining for the second time how my habit of rambling people into friendship had ended with me hunting down bits of Voldemort's sorry excuse for a soul.

“Yeah,” Penelope nods. “I always felt bad that you didn't have any muggle friends your age. It must be hard being muggleborn and having one foot in one world and the other foot in another.”

“You just pretty much summed up my childhood.” It had been lonely. I recognized that now. I'd wanted friends, but to the muggle kids I was the odd girl who made more and more strange comments as the years went on and I fell out of step with the muggle world. Summer breaks could only make up for so much. 

“Oi,” Michelle snaps us out of the depressing turn in conversation, “stay on topic. We can have drinks and cry about our childhood traumas another day.”

I laugh. It feels good to laugh. 

“Right then,” I say, fiddling with the sleeves of my jumper, “well one of the random people I befriended turned out to be Regulus. . .Black. And then I dunno, things got out of hand.” I shrug awkwardly, choosing to look at Penelope. She seemed a safer bet. 

Penelope looks skeptical. “I'm sorry but what? Jane-.”

“Well. . .things came up about the war,” I dance around the topic of horcruxes, not sure how much I should tell them. Some dark magic was better off forgotten. “And I offered to help sort them out-he was honest about the whole voldemort terrorist thing-and he's my friend. Doesn't matter if he's a muggle or wizard or wizard in hiding.”

Michelle snorts. “You're such a hufflepuff.” 

I glare at her teasingly. “You'd have broken me out of the ministry if Penelope's brother had failed.” 

“Duh.”

“Even if I'd committed murder?”

Michelle grins. “ 'a long as you didn't kick a puppy.”

I giggle easily, shoulders shaking in a full body laugh. 

“So you find out your muggle friend’s actually a presumed dead death eater,” Penelope says slowly, still working through the facts, “and you decide to help him! Jane, he could've killed you!”

“You sound like those stranger danger commercials,” I comment, put out when the reference goes straight over both their heads. Regulus would've gotten it. “And he helped old muggle ladies with christmas dinner for christ's sake! So he did indefensible things in the past and I'm not excusing that but shouldn't reform and change be the point-what we’re aiming for? Regulus has changed. He's spent years living among muggles, can you imagine someone like Snape doing the same?” 

Penelope and Michelle look at each other. 

“You know him best so I guess I'll take your word on him for now,” Penelope says. “And if Professor Dumbledore is helping him. . .”

“That's not saying much,” Michelle comments with a smirk. “Professor Dumbledore also hired Snape as a professor. And that whole Crouch thing happened right under his nose.”

“You know about that,” I ask. I'd lost track of the Crouches, too consumed with my own situation to pay much attention to what had happened with them. 

“Yeah. It was in the paper. Small section when the last few days have just been exposés on Sirius Black.” Michelle shares what she's read. “They're interviewing anyone who ever met him and now they're all claiming to have known he was a death eater since he was two.” She rolls her eyes scornfully. “But Crouch resigned and his son got the dementor’s kiss not even a day later. The man’s under house arrest and there's talk of snapping his wand. I can't say I blame him or his wife for wanting to spare their son from Azkaban only his son was a raging death eater and caused a riot at the world cup so I don't feel that sorry for him either.”

Penelope shakes her head. “It's like the whole world’s gone mental.”

“Well, I still think he's a twat,” Michelle spits out, “but I will be civil,” she says dramatically. “If he puts even one toe out of line. . .” 

I roll my eyes. Then I remember Francis’ earlier comment. “What did your brother mean about the Black family?”

Penelope’s frowns in surprise, leaning closer to me, “you don't-”

She stops at the sour expression on my features, pinched from the reoccurring moments that reminded me there would always be things I didn't know about the wizarding world. It's why it was pointless pretending not to muggleborn the way some students had tried. People just knew. They picked up on it the same way they picked up on my dad's accent: half the reason he hadn't taught me spanish. 

Michelle jumps in, gleeful at having the scoop, “The Blacks are like an old family. Infamously pureblooded and complete arseholes about it. But while the stuffy and newly rich like the Greengrass’s and Malfoy’s go blathering blood purity like twats the Blacks were more active about it. Me nan used to complain that some Black nutter tried to pass a muggle hunting law back when Grindlewald was all the rage.”

“I thought Grindlewald never made it into Britain?” I frown. I'd gotten top marks in history. I was sure I wasn't forgetting a recent invasion.

“Just because he didn't take over the way he did France doesn't mean there wasn't sympathy from certain circles in Britain,” Michelle says archly. “Pretty much the entire family sided with Voldemort during the war.”

Unlike my parents who were muggles, or Penelope’s family who had been neutral during the war, trying to survive with a young son and daughter on the way, Michelle's family had been openly against Volemort. 

I slump in my seat. I'd sort of known from the way Regulus had spoken about his family. But it was different hearing the level of infamy. 

“Literally how do you know everything,” Penelope asks curiously. “I can never get my parents to open up about the war, not even for that essay Binns assigned us over the summer before 7th.” 

“The personal narrative,” I wince, still remember how I'd spent five scrolls finding new ways to state that my parents were muggles so we hadn't been affected by the wizarding war. 

“Yeah-my dad lectured me for an hour about being a nosy prat.” Penelope fidgets. “And then he told my mom who lectured me for another hour.”

“Me da’s muggleborn,” Michelle elaborates easily. “So he was pretty annoyed with the whole you-know-who thing. He's a farmer so every month he used to order a bit extra on ‘accident’ so he could send families in hiding food and magical items they might need. And mum volunteered at one of those underground clinics. They're pretty proud of what they did during the war so they've always told me you know?”

“I'd be pretty proud too,” I tell Michelle. “It takes a lot to risk your life for other people. Not everyone can do that work.” I couldn't blame people like the Clearwater’s for just trying to survive. I'd like to think I'd risk my life, but that was an easy thing to say when I didn't have kids and my parents were safely tucked away in Blackpool, out of the wizarding world. 

“I know,” she grins. “I'm proud of me parents too even if they do owl me nearly every day.” 

We reconvene in the kitchen. Sirius has a bottle with half an inch of liquor left and Remus keeps trying to take the bottle from him as we start in on lunch. 

Kreacher’s made creamy squash soup paired with a chicken pot pie for each of us. 

“-drinking’s not going to solve anything,” Remus sighs tiredly.

“Funny. I feel much better already,” the other man counter’s, seemingly sober even after a bottle of whiskey. 

“I think your defense is pretty cut and dry,” Francis says. “You never got a trial so we could countersue for the abuse of process and malicious prosecution. It would help change the public narrative being reported in the newspapers. There's a lot of public interest so they will try to cover their own inadequacies back in ‘81, but as long as we are able to get the testimony of Mr. Hagrid and Mr. Snape-”

“I suppose I might as well go lock myself back up if we're going to rely on Snivellus doing me a favor,” Sirius comments blithely. 

“Do you believe there might be a problem in attaining a testimony from Pro-Mr. Snape,” Francis asks. He was only a handful of years older than me. Professor Snape had been his teacher for years too. It was hard to think of him as anything other than a professor. Unlike Flitwick and Sprout, I couldn't imagine Snape having a life outside of Hogwarts. He was as bitter as Ebenezer Scrooge would have become if the ghosts hadn't visited him on christmas eve. 

“Snape loathes me with a passion that rivals the grease on his hair.”

Michelle snorts.

I find it a pointlessly rude thing to say. The man was unpleasant and unlikeable, but he was good at his subject. He'd also been a spy against Riddle. That counted for a lot. 

“So he's met you,” Regulus says mildly, eating with an etiquette out of a BBC period drama. 

Sirius’s eyes boggle as he looks at his brother in astonishment for a second before the casual grin on his mouth turns spiteful, turns cruel. “Considering the mask wearing cunts he followed around like a kicked dog forgive me if I don't care what that git thinks.” He crosses the line between needling and knows with surgical precision just what to say to make his brother squirm. “But then, you'd know all about them wouldn't you?”

Regulus' face goes bloodless. 

His eyes look away. There's nothing he can say against accusations that ring true. 

Remus looks between the brothers like he's afraid they'll break out in a duel at any moment. Penelope smiles politely as if she can make the moment pass if she ignores it hard enough. 

I push around the food on my plate and wonder if maybe I should just take Regulus and run. Clearly the ministry was rubbish at finding people hidden among muggles. The world was big. 

Sirius manages to eat his pie smugly even as everyone else tries to avoid eye contact. 

After polishing off her glass of water, Michelle cheerfully says, “well I guess that answers that question,” before she eats another spoonful of soup.

Francis continues pouring over the records, blissfully unaware of the implications behind Sirius’ words. “If you believe Severus Snape would be compromised by previous bias we can have him barred from giving any testimony. I can start on the petition now. It would delay the trial for we would have to hold a hearing over the petition to exclude a witness but it might be worth it.” He looks up, his rounded cheeks giving him a youthful look that belies his professional nature. Francis was at home working. 

Penelope might be responsible enough to study and care about her future instead of goofing off and throwing snowballs in the courtyard, but she didn't love it. I had never been able to summon up the drive to study for hours on end. There was no career path I liked enough to sacrifice enjoying the moment with the people I loved. 

I was such a hufflepuff. 

“Yeah. Sure, why not,” Sirius waves off as if this wasn't his future hanging in the balance. 

Francis cracks his fingers. The side of his hand was stained black with ink from writing.  _ Pop  _ go his joints. 

Pens were superior. 

There was probably a fortune to be made selling pens and notebooks to the magical world. Parchment was thick and expensive compared to the twenty pence notebooks at poundland. Quills were just an inconvenience. 

“Now then,” Francis says, shoveling food in his mouth at breakneck speed, speaking as he chews (I wasn't sure he was chewing for long enough to swallow) “should we go through your case Regulus.”

Stiffly, he nods, gaze lowered. 

I'm not sure if I should go. . .but what if he needs me? Regulus wasn't always in a good head space and I knew everything already. 

I should go. 

A fierce pro-con debate rages on in my mind as Francis’ chair screeches as he stands. “-we’ll need a room for privacy-,” Francis comments aloud even as Michelle shifts forward, eyes tracking Penelope’s brother like she's hoping to be a late animagius and transform into a cat that can slip into the room and hear the juicy details. 

Regulus nods distantly but doesn't volunteer any information. 

I make up my mind.

“There's a study down the hall that would work,” I say even as I get up and lead the way. 

“Orion's study,” I hear Sirius say, puzzled as he straightens in his chair but I ignore him before I lose my nerve. Of course Sirius was the type to call his parents by their first names. Then again, he had run away, maybe he didn't consider them to be his parents. 

Francis casts a muffliato charm as the door closes behind us. Certain doors in the house had a habit of closing on their own. I wonder if that's the case with all magical houses. I didn't have enough experience to be sure. I'd ask Regulus about it later. 

“Is there anyone who could definitively prove you were a death eater?” He doesn't dick around. For once, Francis doesn't seem distracted with papers and forms and the quill floating by his head writing everything down. His dark eyes are trained of Regulus who looks as uncomfortable as a drowned cat. 

As his friend, I feel obligated to protest for the sake of objecting. “How do you even know he was one?” It's weak even to my own ears. 

“Jane,” Regulus sighs even as a small smile graces his well formed mouth. 

My heart fluttered in my chest. 

“It's alright,” he tells me before facing Francis who's watching our exchange with a studious gaze. “No. Not with Evan and Barty dead; Bella imprisoned; Lucious will keep his distance to save his own skin. . .but there's no point in pleading not guilty. I have the mark.”

Francis sucks in a breath through his teeth. It's the same look everyone gets when the war comes up. 

“Don't all death eaters have the mark,” I venture to ask. “Binns only went over the highlights. We didn't have time after covering Grindelwald and the creation of the ICW. It's stupid the ICW wasn't created when everyone agreed to the stature of secrecy don't you think?”

Francis looks over at me, sitting on the posh footrest that seemed too high to be a footrest. It had to be used for taking a nap. I'd have hid and napped in my study with Sirius as a kid. My mum would've too if she had a study with me as  _ her  _ kid. “You've been to my house.”

“Yeah,” I nod, “your mum yelled at Penelope in front of me for not telling me to take my shoes off before coming in from the porch.” It seemed years ago now. Maybe it was the summer before fourth that I'd gone over to her house for a day? 

Blackpool was far from Southampton. 

“The mark was only given to Voldemort's inner circle,” Regulus explains, tugging on the loose threads at the cuffs of his jumper. “There would have been death eaters without the mark. It's part of why it was so difficult to pin down every death eater after the war and that was in addition to the imperius excuse many resorted to.”

“Lucious Malfoy infamously used the imperius defense even though he had the dark mark,” Francis says with awe. “Moira Riordan’s a legend for her work on the Malfoy V Ministry trial.” He pushes his glasses up. “Not that I agree with anything Malfoy was acquitted of. . .and got away with.” 

I nod. It made sense now why the mark was such a huge deal.

“Luckily being charged as a member of an organized crime group isn't part of your case. We should be fine on that count.” He frowns. “It's been a headache at the ministry. Your disappearance during the war raises questions but there's only Skeeter’s article to incriminate you. Honestly they're throwing everything and anything to see what sticks. They're sure you must be guilty of something if you went into hiding for so long.” 

“And what exactly am I being accused of,” Regulus asks. 

Francis rolls up his ill fitting dress shirt. “Possessing the proceeds of criminal conduct for which they're attempting to get a search warrant for, assisting another to retain proceeds of terrorist activity, assisting illegal entry, concealing an arrestable offense, concealing criminal property, counterfeiting official documents, failure to disclose terrorist activities.” Francis pauses. “Most of the criminal activity charges are related to your brother's escape for which you are presumed to have aided and abetted.” 

“There's more,” I utter in disbelief.

“-harboring a fugitive. Evasion of duty though they neglected to specific what the duty was in this scenario. And possession of false identity documents.” Francis finishes with a long exhale, catching his breath. 

I look over at Regulus. 

His knuckles have gone fly amanita red as he clutches the arms of his chair. 

“Most of my time spent on your case has been filing motions to strike down charges with an insane lack of evidence,” Francis admits. “It's rather hard considering how unfamiliar I am with what you have or haven't done Mr. Black.”

I hug my arms to my chest. Sirius made a compelling client. He was infamous and he was innocent. There was no reason to not represent him. Whoever cleared his name would be making their career. 

Regulus wasn't so squeaky clean. 

He'd admitted to hurting people during the war, and if I was being honest with myself, heavily implied murder. That he had later defected and gone on to help me finish Riddle off didn't erase his past. 

I knew Penelope. I bet her brother was just as disgusted by the pure blood prejudice as she was. At the very least, he was against Voldemort and his lot after the destruction they'd caused the wizarding world. Even many witches and wizards who’d turn their noses up at muggleborns didn't necessarily agree with Voldemort. 

Regulus looks away. His eyes fall to the matted rug who's pattern is indistinguishable from age. “The dark mark and all it conveys. . .” It's a quiet statement. 

The temperature of the room plunged.

“My entire family was part of his inner circle,” he continues carefully. “I was incredibly impressionable and idiotic to join at 17, during my last year at Hogwarts.”

I fidget on my seat, my body itching to comfort him. 

Francis looks deeply unmoved. 

I would've felt the same if I didn't already know Regulus when I had found out about his past. I knew who he was now, and that was what mattered. 

My gaze moves around the room. It's small and cramped with a dim colored glass lamp that casts dementor like shadows around the room. There's not natural light to speak of. The air sits still in the small space.

It reminds me of a box.

It reminds me of a cell.

“I defected. It was a death sentence,” Regulus continues after a long pause, “I had grown disgusted with being a death eater, with all it entailed. I realized too late that. . .that calling someone a mudblood wasn't the same as casting an unforgivable. And then I was made aware of the dark magic Voldemort had used-had made.” 

It's an awkward and impersonal account. 

He doesn't go into the gritty details: the nightmares and scars that he still barred all these years later. He doesn't bring up his years spent as a harmless muggle. 

Merlin, at this rate, I'd need to be the world's most compelling bard to convince the wizengamot Regulus wasn't a death eater trying to save his own hide. Finally my tendency to get all emotional and teary-eyed was going to come in handy. 

Bloody hell, even my rambling would help.

Regulus was such a knobhead. 

“And that would be the dark magic we are going to use to get you immunity for any and all past crimes,” Francis asks, still looking coldly at Regulus. 

He nods. 

“It better be fucking important.”

“It is.”

I swallow. My back hurt from being hunched over. 

I wish I had an actual chair to sit in. 

Francis blinks, clearly waiting for Regulus to get on with it.

Regulus looks past us both, eyes glazed over as if he's in a distant memory. He's here, but not present. 

I pretend everything's fine as if conviction enough can make it so. “Regulus, you understand the whole dark magic better than me. I'm rubbish at the whole horcrux thing,” I nudge, shifting forward in my seat, orienting myself towards him like a sunflower. 

At the mention of horcruxes, he startles in his seat, blinking rapidly as he comes back from wherever he lost himself in. “Right, yes. Horcruxes.”

Francis glances between us again. Patiently, he waits. 

“Voldemort created horcruxes. He had my house elf hide one.”

He stops. 

We wait. 

When it's clear he's not about to say more I tack on, “they're a nasty bit of magic. What you'd expect from an evil wizard.”

Regulus nods. “He splintered his soul into vessels, a horcrux, in order to cheat death. Voldemort meant them as a way to come back in case he was ever killed. When I found out, I took on the task of destroying it, a locket. I stole it.” He begins to tremble as he speaks. His shoulders rise as he closes in on himself. 

“-it was. . .difficult.”

Regulus hides his hands against his chest. 

Another pause. 

Francis at least seems to have thawed. 

Hopefully he won't be too harsh on him. 

“I'm not sure how I survived, only that I did. I then spent the next few years living among the muggles that had founded me half dead. I researched ways to destroy a horcrux: fiendfyre or basilisk venom. And I did. . .destroy it.”

Regulus falls silent again.

“We have the remains,” I add helpfully. “And Professor Dumbledore can collaborate.”

“That's great,” Francis nods at me, “tangible evidence will be incredibly useful. I doubt most people on the wizengamot would have heard of such dark magic.”

“-I thought there was only one.” His voice cracks as his silver eyes look up. There's a manic panic in his gaze. “There-there should've only been one. . .I-I had nothing left to return to. . .the muggles. . .they were oblivious to me and it was easier to live with them and forget there had ever been anything else. I learned so much from them.”

It's the same mad expression that Sirius occasionally got when he laughed sarcastically. Walburga’s portrait captured it perfectly. 

Francis grows concerned, looking to me. 

I wasn't sure that Regulus would be alright with him knowing, so I answer a different question of just as much importance, “he was a regular at a local tea shop. Trees and Tea. He helped Mrs. Holmes during Christmas and paid for my tea and bought the local paper.” It sounded so mundane. 

It had been normal. 

“Then,” Regulus swallows, looking over at me with a soft fondness in his expression that has warmth rushing to my cheeks, “I met Jane and-the chamber of secrets. . .I knew it had to be a horcrux. I-I'm the only person who knew about them. I felt compelled to finish them off, rid the world of Voldemort permanently.” 

Francis sits back. “I'd say that's grounds for immunity and probably even an Order of Merlin first class if it was public knowledge.”

“I'll settle for vanishing Voldemort.” It would have been witty if not for his bland tone. Regulus’ eyes were flat as he trembled. His blanched skin made his facial scars stand out in contrast, slivers of silver against alabaster. 

“Right,” Francis says looking deeply uncomfortable. “We’ll have to submit the horcrux remains to the wizengamot for the trial. That will be our one and only point throughout. Since it's a closed trial you will be deposed by unspeakables not the department of magical law. Same goes for you Jane when you are called in to testify.”

I nod, more than willing to sob my eyes out if it meant Regulus wouldn't spend a second in Azkaban. 

“Right then. . .I'll just collect the wands before going to file all the necessary papers.”

Regulus gives up his wand without ceremony. 

Francis looks at me again, before glancing at Regulus who was clearly on the verge of having a breakdown, and decides to flee with a forced smile. “I will meet you here on the day of the deposition.” 

He's gone a second later. 

“How can I help you,” I ask softly, instinctively reaching out to Regulus. 

He flinches. Like a marionette cut from its strings, he slumps into his chair, curling into himself. His breaths are shallow and loud. 

It pains me to see him like this. 

“Regulus, please,” I try, pulling back and giving him the space he needs. “Calming draught? Tea? A really boring tome on obscure hexes?” 

With a pinched expression on his features, eyes squeezed shut, he shakes his head. “Just. . .just give me a moment?” 

“Do you want me to leave?”

A pause. 

My chest is tight as I wait for him to respond. I just want him to feel better. Merlin, I felt ready to fist fight the entire wizengamot for putting him through this to begin with. 

“No-please. . .stay.”

And I do.


End file.
